


Magic Black

by NaniErin (RabidFangirlMutterings)



Series: Shatter 'Verse [1]
Category: Chronicles of Riddick Series, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Pitch Black (2000)
Genre: Co-Dependency, Crossover, Gen, Misunderstandings, PTSD, Possibly Pre-Slash, Psychological Trauma, This will start off very familiar looking, Unsure, Violence, and then stray from cannon rather quickly, depending on how hard you squint, it might help to think of it as a very very slow burn, lots of misunderstandings, maybe Triggers, the slowest of burns, triggers?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabidFangirlMutterings/pseuds/NaniErin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is little chance to rest when you are hunting, and even less when you are hunted. There is, it seems, no rest for the weary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I Only Could

**Author's Note:**

> Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy  
> Rating: M (implied violence and graphic descriptions)  
> Theme music: Running Up That Hill by Placebo  
> Setting: AU, immediately after the final battle in Potter-verse

He blinked, swaying on his feet. The sound of his own panting was loud and harsh in his ears and his outstretched hand was trembling, but he didn’t look away from the man that lay motionless on the ground before him. He stood there, unmoving, waiting for the man to stand up again – waiting for the man to speak or lift his arm. He waited, but nothing happened.

 

He blinked again and lowered his arm. In a distant corner of his mind, he started a mental tally of all his pains, sorting trivial twinges from threatening injuries and making note of which needed to be attended to and in what order. He still didn’t allow his eyes to stray from the man that lay sprawled before him. He’d be getting up any moment now, he was sure of it.

 

A soft sound came from behind, the scuff of a boot dragged over flesh, and instinct took over. He spun, raised his wand, and spoke the first two syllables of some ancient phrase or other before he registered what he was seeing. A young man, red-headed, tall, and lanky, and a young lady, eyes wide and hair flying in every direction, stumbled to a sudden stop. They each held a wand. That meant they were threats. His voice trailed off, though, and he frowned. There was something in him that didn’t want to hurt these two. That didn’t make any sense. He clenched his jaw and refused to lower his hand. They stood motionless, eyes cautious yet hopeful, while he struggled to remember why he wasn’t attacking them. His thoughts were moving so slowly.

 

The girl’s gaze moved from him to something behind him and a hopeful smile bloomed across her face. “Is he dead, Harry? Is it over?”

 

He flinched. Her voice was so loud in the silence.

 

The red-head’s eyes were still wary. They flickered behind him, too, but only for a moment. This one was more observant, more dangerous. He shifted his wand to point more directly at the youth. The other boy raised his hands slowly, palms outward, and spoke in a low, clear voice. “It’s okay, Harry. It’s just us – just Ron and ‘Mione. We’re your friends, mate.”

 

He frowned at them. What the youth said – the words sounded right, but the information didn’t make any sense. He lowered his arm again, but remained guarded. He tried to swallow. His mouth was dry. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steady breath – in and out – willing his mind to work properly. After a brief mental struggle, he nodded. Yes, that was right – the boy was Ron and the girl was Hermione. They were his friends. Of course they were his friends. They were his best friends. They’d been by his side through everything – from their first run in with a troll to this, the final battle. He’d have been lost a hundred times over without these two. What was he thinking?

 

Harry opened his eyes and looked back at them. He didn’t have the words to explain, but he did offer them a sheepish smile. They seemed to understand. Their faces lit up and they ran to him. They hugged him tight and clapped him on the back and shoulders, pressing on wounds and aggravating pain. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He dropped his wand and clung to them, a handful of cloak in either fist. He didn’t loosen his hold when they started to pull back. He needed the physical contact – needed to know that they were alive and whole, no missing parts among them. They didn’t seem to mind. They stood close to him and each other, smiles stretching into grins. Hermione had one hand resting on Harry’s hip – her other hand was entangled with Ron’s. Ron’s free hand was on Harry’s shoulder, alternating between solid pats and comforting squeezes. Maybe they needed the reassurance, too.

 

They were quick to find their voices again. He smiled when the questions started – some were directed at him and some at each other. He couldn’t get his voice to work, so he nodded and shook his head as best he could. Their speech was becoming disjointed, though. Both were talking at the same time, answers and questions spilling out of their mouths faster and faster until neither were intelligible. He grinned as he tried to keep up with what they were saying. The grin turned into a chuckle, and the chuckle turned into outright laughter. He laughed until his sides ached and his knees went weak. Their words dissolved into laughter, too, and the three of them struggled to hold each other up. It didn’t work for long. They tumbled to the ground together, a pile of giggles and gasping breaths.

 

Harry winced at the landing. There was a very sore spot on the left side of his lower back that something was digging into now that he was on the ground. It damped his chuckling, but not his smile. He closed his eyes and listened to his friends calm and their breathing even out again. They were okay. His friends were alive and whole and not too badly damaged, if appearances could be trusted. They were okay. He was okay. It was over.

 

He blinked at that last thought and struggled to climb to his feet again. His limbs protested the sudden movements, a small burst of pain erupting from his lower back nearly had him back on the ground, but he clenched his jaw and shoved the distractions away. He had to see – he had to know. Was it true?

 

At first, all he could see was a man, just one – the one he had been fighting only minutes ago. The man was lying very still – hadn’t moved from where it had landed, actually. He stumbled over to it and laid a hand on the nearest bit of bare flesh, only for a moment, before yanking it away. Cold – not the icy cold of the long dead, but not the proper warmth of the living, either.

 

Harry cocked his head to the side. Had this one ever been truly warm after… after the thing, though? It had been dead for a long time and then he was back, but not the right way. It never looked like it had before it died… maybe other things had changed, too? Harry didn’t know, couldn’t remember. Pulse – better to check for a pulse. He fumbled with the wrist of the man, and then the neck, but didn’t feel any signs of life. No breath coming from the mouth or the nose, either.

 

Harry laughed. Dead. This one was dead. Voldemort. Voldemort was dead. The fight was over. Harry laughed again – the sound bubbled out of him. It really was over. The fight was over. The war was over. Voldemort was dead!

 

Harry jumped to his feet and spun around, oblivious to pain or injury. His friends were still in the jumbled heap they had landed in. The looked up at him expectantly. He wanted to shout or crow or cheer or do something else suitably theatric, but his voice wasn’t working yet. He settled for another grin. He grinned and nodded his head and that was all Hermione needed. She let out a loud whoop of a sound and threw herself at Ron. She kissed him a dozen times and then hid her face in his shoulder to muffle her laughter. If her laughter began to sound like sobbing after a moment or two, Harry gave no indication that he heard. She had earned at least this much – all of them had. Ron looked dazed. He blinked and looked at the body, then back up to Harry again, asking a silent question. Harry understood. He nodded again. Ron nodded, too, and pulled Hermione closer. Harry looked away to give his friends a moment of privacy.

 

He looked away from them and his legs nearly gave out.

 

There were bodies… everywhere. The field was covered in them. Some wore black cloaks and some wore school robes, others only wore slacks and shirts. All of them were filthy – splattered with blood and smeared with dirt and filth. Not one bit of clean cloth as far as he could see, and he could see all the way to the tree line at the far end of the field and to the lake shore and the castle to either side. He recognized that the thoughts weren’t appropriate, he knew that with so very many bodies littered about that he should be thinking something more solemn, but he couldn’t help thinking that with so much dirty clothing, it would make for an awful lot of laundry to do.

 

Then, as if there were a switch to be flipped, Harry realized that he could do more than just see them. He could hear them, those injured and dying. He heard shouts and screams, but mostly there was moaning and crying. He heard several voices begging for water and at least one calling out for 'mother'. He could smell them, too. The battle had started before dawn and had continued long into the afternoon. The sun hung hot and heavy in the sky, now, and the field that they had fought on, that they had spent the better part of the day spilling blood and innards and all manner of bodily fluids on, was thick and ripe with the smell of rot and warmed death.

 

Harry felt his stomach lurch.

 

No. Too much. There was too much – too much input. He shook his head. Too much pain and death and violence. He didn’t want it anymore. He never wanted it. He didn’t want to think about the dead. He didn’t want to think about who they were or how many he would recognize if their faces were whole and their bodies in one piece. He didn’t want to think about how many were dying still. He didn’t want to think about anything. He didn’t want to think.

 

He closed his eyes, but the images seemed to be burned onto the backs of his eyelids. And the sounds and the smells. He couldn’t figure out how to turn off the sounds and the smells. He couldn’t stop it. He needed to stop it.

 

A noise. Close. A threat.

 

Harry turned to face the threat. His arm shot out and his mouth had started forming words before he recognized that something was wrong. His hand. He looked at his hand. His wand. It wasn’t there. He didn’t have his wand. His eyes moved from his empty hand to the source of the noise. Black robes. White mask streaked with red.

 

No. Bad. Enemy.

 

The threat was pointing a wand at his friends, at Ron and Hermione. They were distracted, still. They hadn’t heard it, didn’t see it. Words were being spoken from behind the mask, high pitched and hoarse. A woman? A youth? Not enough time to warn them. Not enough time to find his wand. Not enough time.

 

Everything happened in slow motion, then.

 

He lunged. His mouth warped into a snarl as he moved.

 

The threat saw him. The wand turned away from the two on the ground to point at him.

 

His friends saw and made sounds of protest. They began to reach for their wands. Too slow.

 

A sickly yellow light left the enemy’s wand and connected with Harry’s chest.

 

Harry collided with the enemy. He felt a sharp, piercing pain in his shoulder and heard the snap of wood breaking.

 

Harry felt the vicious satisfaction that came of neutralizing the enemy – he registered the relief that his friends really would be okay – and then there was pain.

 

Everything was pain.


	2. Rise and Shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luck sure was a fickle bitch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genre: Adventure, Sci-Fi  
> Rating: M (violence)  
> Theme music: 1940 (Amplive Remix) by The Submarines  
> Setting: AU, first ten minutes of Pitch Black  
> (edited 3/29/15)

_They say most of your brain shuts down in cryo-sleep._

_All but the primitive side… the animal side…_

_No wonder I’m still awake._

_Transporting me with civilians… sounded like forty, forty-plus._

_Heard an Arab voice… some hoodoo holy man, probably on his way to New Mecca._

_But what route… what route…_

_Smelled a woman._

_Sweat, boots, tool belt, leather. Prospector type._

_Free settlers… and they only take the back roads._

_And here’s my real problem: Mr. Johns, blue-eyed devil, planning on taking me back to slam…_

_Only this time he picked a ghost lane._

_A long time between stops..._

_A long time for something to go wrong…_

 

Riddick was awake when things started going wrong.

 

He heard the whispers of the bits of rock passing through the hull of the old transport, too far off for him to tell if anything electric had been fried.

 

He listened to the confused voices of the only two crew members to leave their cryo-pods – voices that became panicked shouts as the alarms started blaring. His pod was far enough back that he wasn't able to catch scent of anything that was going on. That was a disappointment.

 

He felt an increase in turbulence just moments before he noticed a rise in temperature. The smell of burning metal and scorched wiring reached him next, followed by the faint screech of metal tearing away.

 

Riddick snorted. The ship was heading planet-side. He would have smirked if the bit had allowed for it. Looked like Billy-Boy’s luck had just run out.

 

He tested his bindings, tugging and pulling to feel out the weaknesses. He made note of what he found, but didn't move to take advantage of anything yet. If he survived the crash, he’d break free, but until then he might as well keep to the relative safety of the cryo-pod. Hell, he wouldn't even get as banged up as the other passengers, with as securely bound as he was.

 

Securely bound?

 

He snorted again. Fucking Johns. If it hadn't been for that greedy son of a bitch, he wouldn't be in this position in the first place.

 

A heavy clunking sound interrupted his thoughts and the angle of the ship changed. A dozen seconds later, the sound happened again, closer this time, and the angle change was more noticeable.

 

Fuck. He’d been unconscious when he was brought on, so he didn't have any feel for the layout of the transport or for how large it might be. He had assumed they were heading down nose-first, but with the pilot purging weight they had to be falling ass-first. Not his favorite way to land a craft.

 

Two compartments purged, but they still weren't level enough for a safe landing. How many more before the one he was in came up?

 

A hiss and a thump, barely audible over the sounds of turbulence, came from across the aisle and then there were traces of gunpowder and morphine in the air.

 

Speak of the devil.

 

The fucker chose one hell of a time to stretch his legs. Maybe Johns would do himself a favor and get himself killed in the crash. Had to be less painful than what Riddick had planned for him.

 

The whole ship gave a sudden, bone-shaking lurch and Riddick jarred in his restraints. The compartment shuddered and jolted around him. He heard the deafening screech of metal ripping nearby, followed by an oppressive wave of heat.

 

He heard a strangled yelp of surprise from Johns and then, seconds after that, the sound of flesh hitting metal and plexi. He assumed it was Johns bouncing loose around the compartment and wasn't that a pleasant thought? Before he was able to enjoy that image too much, though, a body collided with his pod hard enough to shatter the plexi. It only took one whiff to know that this wasn’t Johns.

 

A hand reached into the pod, scrambling for a grip. His shoulder got scratched several times, some deep enough to draw blood, before the hand got a solid hold on his arm.

 

Riddick heard grunting and panting. He scented the air. A young man – a boy, maybe – bleeding and riding high on adrenaline, not anyone he had run into before. There was confusion, and maybe a little fear, in the air as well, but above all that was the smell of battle. Everything else could’ve pointed to a passenger thrown free of his pod or maybe a stowaway knocked out of hiding by the crash. There wasn’t any way  to fake that last smell, though. No way anyone drifting for that long could smell of that particular mixture of blood, piss and entrails.

 

There was a gasp and a groan from the kid, along with sounds that indicated he was struggling to hold on. The grip on Riddick’s arm tightened enough that there might be bruising later, but Riddick ignored it. He turned his face so that he was as close to the boy’s arm as the restraints allowed and inhaled again, pushing past the battle-scent to the smells that lay beneath. Sweat, fatigue, pain and green - green like fresh cut grass or the woods after it rained. There was something else, there, too, nothing that he could put words to, but something spicy. It irritated his nose, like pepper.

 

The compartment was beginning to slow when the kid loosened his grip. Riddick heard him land on his feet on the grating, but didn't hear him move away. Interesting.

 

With swift, deliberate movements, Riddick braced his feet and tore loose the bindings that held him in the pod. It made more noise than he wanted, but once he had the shackles off, the other passengers wouldn't be a problem. He reached for the emergency release lever, gave a sharp tug, and welcomed the soft hiss of the plexi door opening.

 

Riddick paused before leaving the pod, listening. He heard harsh breathing, a pounding heart, and cloth rustling from where the boy stood. He heard debris settling, too, but nothing that meant anyone else was moving around yet.

 

Morphine and gunpowder lingered in the air - they led to a heart beat too slow to be conscious. Fucking Johns. More lives than a goddamned cockroach.

 

Stretching out his senses, Riddick picked up the sounds and scents of nine survivors. There were others, but he didn't count the dying. The temperature inside the ship was increasing steadily, if slow. It was going to be miserable hot outside. Lovely.

 

Satisfied with what he’d found, he dropped out of the cryo-pod and waited for the kid's reaction.

 

The boy’s heart rate and breathing had started to calm, but his pulse was picking up speed again now that Riddick was closer. No hint of arousal on the air and the scent of confusion lingered, but the fear was fading. The kid still smelled of exhaustion and filth, though, as well as of green and that strange spice. Curious.

 

Riddick took a step closer to him.

 

The boy’s pulse was a bit faster and the traces of fear that remained were heavy with adrenaline, but the kid held his ground and his tongue.  Level headed and quiet, then. That suited Riddick just fine.

 

Amused, Riddick turned his attention back to ridding himself of his restraints.

 

First to come off was the bit. He slid the device over his head and let it fall to the ground with a loud clang while he worked the ache out of his jaw. The kid startled at the noise and, because he was finally able to, Riddick smirked. The boy huffed at him and his smirk grew.

 

Next – the blindfold. He slid it up, just a bit, and chanced a glance around the room, before he clenched his jaw against the pain that lanced through his skull. He let the blindfold fall over his eyes again. It was too bright in here for him to see.

 

The boy took a step closer, his heart rate spiking again, and he started putting off more fear.

 

Riddick didn’t pick up on any new threats, but he did hear the kid raise his arm.

 

“Watch yourself,” Riddick rumbled. “I’ve been known to bite.”

 

The kid huffed again, but his pulse slowed down a touch and he lowered his arm. Still wasn’t talking, though.

 

Riddick mulled the information over. The boy was curious enough to hang around and smart enough to take a warning for what it was. Might be useful to keep around, assuming he could keep up.

 

“Light’s a bit bright in here. Think you can find somewhere darker, out of the way?”

 

There was a moment of silence, followed by a grunt, and then the kid was moving away.

 

From the first step, Riddick could tell that the boy was injured. The kid wasn’t being loud about it, but his breathing got harsh again and the smell of pain increased the further they went. Despite this, the boy had a soft step – quiet enough that Riddick almost didn’t pick up on his limp. The kid moved slow and deliberate, but whether it was for Riddick, in his blind and shackled state, or for his own injuries was hard to say.

 

The kid came to a stop, interrupting Riddick’s thoughts. The boy was silent a moment or two, then tapped his foot against the grating two or three times. The next sound the kid made was a pained hiss as he landed on the deck below with a thump. The hiss wasn’t loud and didn’t last long, but it took the boy some time to catch his breath enough to move again.

 

Riddick frowned. The kid was more injured than he first thought. It couldn’t be his first time dealing with pain, though, not if he was hiding it this well.

 

Riddick took two more steps and dropped down to the lower level as well. He waited until he heard the boy walking again and followed.

 

It wasn't too much longer before the kid stopped and grunted again.

 

The room felt cooler and few of the sounds from above were filtering through. Cautious, Riddick lifted the blindfold again.

 

He winced. There was still more light than he cared for, but it wasn’t as bright here as it was above and there were deeper shadows near by.

 

He scanned their surroundings – nothing to see but piles of loose ship parts and the occasional sparking wire. Water was moving over metal somewhere nearby, but not in this room. The spot they were standing in was hidden from anyone who dropped down to this level, at least at first, and he saw at least two escape routes. It was a nice spot.

 

Riddick turned back to the kid.

 

The boy was short, a bit on the scrawny side, but it was hard to tell with the way his clothes hung on him. His skin was pale and his hair dark and unkempt. He held himself like he’d been on the run for a while – resting, but not relaxed, and alert for any signs of danger. His clothes were near to rags. There were tears, from running, maybe, but there were bits that were burnt and holes that had to have been put there by blades or claws. What was left was oversized and filthy. He wore glasses, too, but left lens was cracked. He took a moment to wonder how the kid had kept from losing them in the crash before dismissing the thought as unimportant.

 

It was hard to place the kid’s age. From his height and build, Riddick would’ve said the boy had somewhere close to 15 years on him. Everything about the kid said that he was used to living rough, though. It was in easy to see in the way that he hid his pain and with how he was able to find a choice spot to rest. Skills like that didn't come without experience. Of course, experience like that meant he could be younger than he looked, or older.

 

It was his eyes, though, that really caught Riddick’s attention. They glowed, as if lit from behind - almost as bright as the sparks the loose wiring was throwing off, but not half as painful.

 

The kid stood still while Riddick looked him over. His eyes flitted between scanning their surroundings and looking Riddick over in turn. His pulse had slowed quite a bit while they stood there, as had his breathing. All sorts of fascinating.

 

“You know who I am, boy?”

 

The kid’s eyes flew to Riddick’s and the corners of his mouth turned up.  It took a moment, but he shook his head.

 

Introductions didn’t matter at the moment, Riddick had just been curious. “You know how to pick a lock?”

 

The boy blinked and reached behind him with his right hand, a gesture that seemed more habit than deliberate thought. He frowned when he didn’t find what he was looking for and looked down at himself. When he looked up again, he was chewing on his lower lip. He was putting off the beginnings of fear again and he looked concerned as he shook his head.

 

“You wanna learn?”

 

The corner of the kid’s mouth tugged upward again and he stood up a bit straighter, the fear fading away again. He nodded.

 

Riddick felt the corners of his mouth twitch. The boy was eager to please. That could come in real handy. Possible that he had been beaten on, too, with the way he got scared that he couldn't do what Riddick was asking, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. He described what to look for and the boy took to searching their surroundings for something suitable.

 

Riddick watched the kid move and mentally ticked off injuries. Bleeding from the left shoulder - a puncture wound, recent. Bleeding from something along his lower back, as well, but not as bad as the shoulder. Limp meant a possible sprain to the right ankle, but he was moving well with it. There was more damage hiding under that mess of rags, but nothing that smelled life threatening.

 

Was the boy a local? The injuries would make sense if there was some sort of war or conflict going on. He hadn’t heard any sounds of fighting when he was on the upper level, but he knew that that didn’t have to mean anything. The smell would fit, too, if the kid was a local and smelling like green meant knowing where the water was. Having a guide to a water source on a planet as hot as this one promised to be would be priceless. He ignored the logistics of how the boy came to be bouncing around inside a crashing transport ship - for now.

 

The kid came back with half a dozen bits of wire and metal, any of which might be useful for picking a lock, and offered them to Riddick.

 

Riddick chose one, grunted his thanks, and set to work. The wrist cuffs came off first. It took a bit longer than he’d like, but the lock was at a funny angle on this model. Johns was getting smarter.

 

He snorted at the thought.

 

As he worked, he heard the other passengers beginning to move around above. Voices called out to each other and, on occasion, answered. He needed to pick up the pace.

 

He passed the restraints off to the boy with a glance to see how he was doing. The kid was scanning the room again, head cocked to one side. The boy took the cuffs with his right hand without looking, and turned his head a fraction to the right. Riddick had been about to start on the shackles at his ankles when the movement caught his eye. He followed the kid’s line of sight, but didn’t see anything.

 

The shackles were almost off when the boy reached out, stopping just short of touching Riddick’s shoulder. Riddick grunted, but didn’t stop what he was doing.

 

Johns was getting closer. Riddick was familiar enough with his scent and heartbeat that he’d been able to tell when the bastard had woken up. He was a bit impressed that the kid had picked up on John’s movements as early as he did. Sharper senses than most.

 

The thump Johns made jumping down to the lower level masked the sound of the shackles falling to the floor.

 

The boy’s vitals were picking up speed again, and  adrenaline was back in the air. The kid had crouched down, watching Johns while trying to stay hidden. Had to be hell on his ankle. The boy was tense, mouth pressed in a firm line, jaw clenched. His eyes were scanning their surroundings.

 

Was he looking for weapons or escape routes?

 

Sometimes, the kid would glance back to Riddick, like he was looking for direction or instruction.

 

Riddick ignored him for the moment.

 

Johns stepped further into the room. His movements were slow and cautious, but his breathing was calm. The familiar smell of morphine and gunpowder was stronger now and laced with traces of fresh blood. The merc moved his head to one side and the light from above caught on fluid leaking from his right ear.

 

Riddick smirked. Billy-boy must’ve busted an eardrum.

 

He didn’t seem too concerned with the idea that Riddick was out of his pod, though. Might mean he wasn’t expecting Riddick to be able to get out of his chains or maybe he trying to find his shot-gun shells. Either way could mean he was getting a bit sloppy. Hard to tell with Johns, though.

 

A quick scan of his surroundings and Riddick was able to find a jagged bit of metal that fit his hand well. He’d have preferred having the time to wrap the makeshift hilt for a better grip, but this would do.

 

He glanced at the boy again and was surprised to find the kid meeting his gaze. Riddick motioned for the boy to stay where he was and to keep quiet. The kid wore a curious look, but nodded and took a step or two toward some of the deeper shadows.

 

Riddick turned back to his prey. Johns bent down to the floor for something. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity.

 

Riddick took two quick strides and lunged for Johns. He saw the mercenary’s hand close around the grip of a pistol the moment before he collided with the bastard.

 

Fuck. He’d have to make this quick.

 

Riddick planted his makeshift blade in Johns’ side and let his momentum take the both of them to the floor. Johns yelped in surprise, but rolled with the grapple. They struggled for a few moments, but Riddick was able to pin Johns’ right arm to the grating. Johns didn't waste any time reaching for the collapsible baton the fuck liked to carry with him with his free hand.  The little shit was fast to introduce it, repeatedly, to any part of Riddick he could reach, too.

 

This left Riddick with a choice: take a beating and keep the mercenary’s gun arm pinned, or let up on the gun arm to stop the beating.  

 

Riddick grunted with the impact of another blow from the baton. Maybe there was a third choice.

 

Keeping as much of his weight on Johns’ right arm as he could, he pulled his shiv free from the bastard’s side. Johns’ barked with the pain and managed to wrench his gun arm free just long enough to fire the pistol in Riddick’s direction.

 

Ears ringing, Riddick had just enough time to determine that he wasn't hit, before everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my fic! Please don't hesitate to review with thoughts/questions/ravings/requests/etc!


	3. They're Gonna Eat Me Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surviving - it's all that matters. Not getting left behind is a big part of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genre: Adventure, Sci-Fi  
> Rating: M (profanity, violence and character death)  
> Theme music: Help I'm Alive by Metric  
> Setting: AU - we're straying from the path, my friends

Harry panted and blinked darkness away from the edges of his vision.

 

His whole body was tingling.

 

Had that happened before? He had a vague sense of dread about it, but no explanation for what it might mean.

 

He shook his head. He was in a foreign place. He couldn't afford to explore that right now.

 

Hermione. He’d ask her about it later.

 

He shoved the thoughts away and looked to his surroundings for distraction.

 

He was crouched over metal grating – the flooring here was the same as that on the level above. Around him were metal panels and loose wiring and objects he didn’t have names for.

 

So much metal.

 

It made sense for a muggle airliner, but he couldn't identify anything that might tell him what country it was from.

 

He wondered what it said about him that his first chance to ride in an airplane would be as it crashed, but pushed that thought away, too.

 

He glanced around.

 

He was just below where he’d been standing on the upper deck. Looked like a three meter drop. He didn't think it was anything the prisoner couldn't handle, as fit as the stranger looked. It was darker on this level, and cooler. A good place to hide from prying eyes – if there were any eyes left to pry.

 

He shook his head. He shouldn't be thinking about that. He needed to keep moving.

 

He stood, moving slow, and noted the faint trembling in his hands. He was surprised when the first step he took didn't hurt as much as he thought it would, but didn't question it. He moved just enough to be out of the way and waited for the man to join him.

 

The prisoner made the jump down look easy, but then, the stranger didn't have any injuries – nothing visible, anyway. Harry didn't wait for a signal before he started walking again – if the man wanted him to wait, he’d say something.

 

It took several steps for Harry to realize that the tingling sensation that had started earlier was fading.

 

It took a few more before he realized that the pain was coming back.

 

The discomfort was slow to return – a steady, persistent burn that spread through his body. It increased a little with each step, giving him time to adjust as it grew. His ankle was the exception, it sent something jagged shooting up his leg every time he put weight on it.

 

There was no time for it, though. He had no clue where he was or how close the nearest Death Eaters were. He couldn't afford to show weakness in front of a stranger, either, not until he had a better idea of who and what the man might be.

 

Instead, he tucked the building pain to one side and focused on keeping his steps and his breathing even.

 

He stopped after a bit and glanced around.

 

This would do, for the moment. There was still enough light to see, but there were deeper shadows nearby if they needed the safety.

 

He grunted and then glanced back at the prisoner, who had stopped a few paces behind Harry and was waiting.

 

When he’d first laid eyes on the stranger, Harry’s first thought had been of how dark the man’s skin was. Not half as dark as Kingsley’s, but rather like a cup of tea with a healthy bit of milk. The man was big, too – not fat like Vernon, but muscular. He was taller than Harry by at least 20 cm and was built like he fought for a living. There was confidence in the way the man held himself, as if he wasn't even aware he was wearing restraints. Or as if they didn't matter.

 

There were other things – little things, familiar things – that struck Harry as being odd. Like how the stranger would cock his head to one side or how his nostrils would flare, like he was trying to catch scent of something.

 

The prisoner lifted his bound hands to pull the blindfold off and winced.

 

The man’s face changed, flickered, and then Remus was before him, exhausted and aching after a rough moon.

 

Harry blinked and the man was a stranger again.

 

Harry frowned.

 

That’s where he’d seen that sniffing before – Remus. He’d seen his mentor act like that when he was unsure if he could trust his surroundings. Come to think of it, he had an image of Greyback doing the same.

 

Was the man a werewolf?

 

The mouth-bit made so much more sense. The chains, too, if they were enchanted - they certainly weren't silver. He couldn't imagine non-silver, non-magical chains doing much to restrain a werewolf. And the moon – when was it last full?

 

Strangely enough, the idea of this man being a werewolf was more calming than alarming. Harry put the lack of distress down to spending so much time with Remus and resolved not to let it lower his guard. Constant vigilance and all that.

 

“You know who I am, kid?”

 

Harry’s gaze shot back to the stranger.

 

The prisoner’s voice was deep and coarse, as if he hadn't used it in ages. It was the man’s – the werewolf’s – eyes, though, that gave him pause. They were silver – the reflective sort that Harry had only ever seen on animals caught in the light after nightfall.

 

Harry offered the man a slight smile and shook his head. He couldn't think of anyone who might have eyes like that - not even Greyback.

 

The stranger didn't seem bothered by his answer. “You know how to pick a lock?”

 

Harry blinked.

 

He knew how to pick a muggle lock, of course, but an enchanted lock would be trickier and he only knew the one unlocking spell. Would a simple alohomora do the trick? It might be worth finding out. As long as the manacles weren't cursed against unlocking attempts, anyway.

 

Harry frowned.

 

Something was wrong.

 

He’d been reaching for his wand while he let his thoughts wander, but it wasn't there. Where was it?

 

He bowed his head and worried his lower lip.

 

The crash? He could’ve lost it then – Merlin! It could’ve snapped! But, no… no, it was before the crash. The Death Eater – he had lunged at the Death Eater because he didn’t have his wand in reach, which meant… no wand.

 

Damn.

 

Well, at least it wasn't broken. Hermione would have the sense to stow it somewhere safe until he got back. Left him in a bit of a bind now, though.

 

Would the werewolf leave him behind if he wasn't useful enough?

 

There hadn't been a chance yet to advertise that he was a wizard, but he didn't know if that were the sort of thing you could smell on a person or not.

 

If the man picked up on the fact that he was a wizard and thought he was holding back... what would he do? The stranger didn't look like he'd go out of his way to turn someone over to the Death Eaters, but that didn't mean he might not attack if he thought Harry was a threat. Or if Harry didn't have anything valuable to contribute – if he couldn't keep up...

 

Bracing himself, Harry raised his gaze to meet the prisoner’s eyes. He shook his head.

 

“You wanna learn?”

 

No sneer of disgust. No cutting words. Maybe he’d been too quick to judge the stranger.

 

Either way, a werewolf’s protection wasn't an opportunity he was willing to pass up. He’d make himself as useful as he could.

 

He stood up a bit straighter and nodded.

 

The corners of the prisoner’s mouth twitched, but then he was speaking again, describing what he needed.

 

The items – components, maybe, or tools - sounded like what Harry would've looked for if he’d been able to pick the lock, himself. He sorted through the piles of rubble – trying to stay quiet, to stay near, to keep from aggravate any of his many different injuries – and felt the stranger’s eyes on him as he moved.

 

The man might be cautious or maybe he was curious. Harry didn't think past this. There were other reasons why the man might watch him so closely, but thinking on them would only make him nervous and werewolves were more than adept at smelling fear.

 

Once Harry had six bits of wire and metal that he thought might work, he returned to where the prisoner was and held them up for inspection. He was curious to see how muggle scrap could be used to bypass enchanted locks, but the stranger only chose a particularly narrow shard, grunted, and jammed it in the keyhole of the wrist cuffs.

 

Oh. He was using the muggle way. Harry tilted his head to one side and watched the man work.

 

Perhaps that was the best way to undo enchanted manacles? Wizards were often arrogant enough that they overlooked simple solutions. How difficult would it be to spell the key holes closed, though?

 

Maybe they weren't enchanted in the first place? Of course, that would mean that the prisoner’s captors were muggle – which meant that they couldn't know that the man was a werewolf – so why the mouth-bit?

 

Harry worried his lower lip again as he turned the thoughts over in his head, before throwing them aside.

 

It didn't matter – not at the moment, anyway. Someone needed to keep watch and the stranger was busy with his shackles.

 

Harry took a deep breath and released it slowly. He forced his eyes to lose their focus and cocked his head to one side, straining his ears for sounds that didn't belong.

 

There was the soft clinking of metal on metal from next to him, but that wasn't a threat. Further away – on the upper level – he heard raised voices. There was fear in some, near panic in one, and he caught words on occasion, but none heading in their direction. There were other sounds – a rhythmic clunking and a faint hissing – nothing close by, though, and that was all that mattered.

 

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when a flash of color pulled his attention to the right. He hadn't heard anything, and, now that he was looking, he didn't see anything that shouldn't be there, either. He could've sworn he had just seen something orange colored, though, about the same shade as….

 

No, that was ridiculous.

 

He’d been the only one hit with that spell, after all.

 

Still, he kept his gaze focused on the area he’d seen it and when the werewolf made to pass him something, Harry took it without looking.

 

The prisoner glanced at the same area.

 

For the space of a breath, Harry found himself almost hoping - but the werewolf didn't give any sign that he noticed anything new.

 

The man started working on the bindings at his ankles and Harry turned his attentions back to keeping watch.

 

Harry didn't know how much time had passed before he was sure of what he was hearing.

 

He’d been hearing movement for the past minute or two, something much quieter than anything else. It didn't seem like anything to cause alarm, but he swore that the noise was steadily getting closer. Approaching movement that quiet meant someone was using stealth.

 

Not good.

 

He reached out in the werewolf’s direction, careful not to touch. He waited until the stranger made a noise of acknowledgement before he dropped his hand.

 

The prisoner didn't tense or pause in his work, so he must’ve already known someone was trying to sneak up on them. It made sense, with him being what he was.

 

The werewolf finally freed himself from the last of his shackles right as their stalker dropped down from the level above.

 

Harry froze.

 

He knew the man straightening himself out just a handful of feet away. He knew the coldness in those blue eyes and the arrogant confidence in that smirk. He didn't know why the man was dressed like a muggle, but even with a glamour charm, there was no hiding Lucius Malfoy.

 

Harry crouched down to make himself harder to see. He was grateful to feel the new wave of adrenaline coursing through him - it made it easier to ignore his aches and pains.

 

He scanned the room and picked out two different exits, but discarded the first immediately. Between his injuries and his lack of wand, forcing his way past Malfoy Senior wasn't the best plan right now.

 

The oddest thing at the moment wasn't the Death Eater's sudden appearance, but that the prisoner recognized Malfoy, too.

 

Perhaps it wasn't such a strange thing, though. Malfoy had never hid how he felt about magical creatures. Between his money and his politics, it was easy to picture him pissing off a whole country of werewolves.

 

Either way, Harry kept half an eye on the stranger and tried to stay unnoticed.

 

Harry blinked and Malfoy was now further away from the both of them than he had been the moment before.

 

Closer to him, but still not where he’d been seconds before, the werewolf straightened from a crouch. He looked over an uneven bit of scrap metal he now held in his hand, then looked up before Harry could look away.

 

Their eyes locked.

 

Harry knew that direct eye contact could be seen as a threat, especially with wolves, but he wasn't able to look away. He blinked, struggling to come up with a way to fix this, when the werewolf held up his hand and motioned for Harry to stay.

 

Harry nodded. The werewolf was more preoccupied with Malfoy than him, and he was just fine with that.

 

Harry took two careful steps back, so that he was better hidden in the shadows.

 

If Malfoy was here, then the chances were good that there were other Death Eaters nearby. If the prisoner wanted to handle the pureblood himself, then it was up to Harry to play look out again.

 

Harry watched as the stranger moved away from him, but the werewolf only took a handful of steps before everything shifted and Harry found himself on the floor.

 

Why? How had he gotten there?

 

He searched his thoughts frantically, only to come up empty. It was like he was missing memory – seconds, maybe minutes.

 

Obliviate. Someone had obliviated him.

 

Harry felt panic stir at the thought and immediately squashed it.

 

The prisoner hadn’t had a wand and a Death Eater wouldn’t obliviate Harry just to leave him alone in the wreckage of a muggle airliner. Even if there had been another witch or wizard that he had missed, there was nothing he could do right then to undo the spell. It was better to just ignore the idea, reassess the situation, and move on from there.

 

He lifted his head and scanned his surroundings.

 

Dust made seeing difficult and debris was resettling. More wiring loose than before. Light was filtering down at a new angle, but that didn’t make any sense.

 

Sounds of movement from above.

 

Someone was coming. Several someones - two, maybe three.

 

More Death Eaters?

 

No way to tell.

 

Not close yet, though. It would take them some time to catch up, but he should start moving now if he wanted to stay ahead of them.

 

He tried to push himself up off the floor, but pain exploded from his back and shoulder. He bit his tongue to keep from crying out and lowered himself back down.

 

Harry wanted to cuss. He knew he’d been injured fighting Voldemort, but he hadn’t thought it was this serious.

 

He shook his head.

 

There was an unfamiliar werewolf nearby and possible Death Eaters on the way - he didn’t have time for this. Escape and safety first, he’d see to his hurts after that.

 

He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw and pulled himself to his feet. He was careful to twist his back as little as he could, and to stand on his good leg. He was a bit light headed. Hard to tell if that was the pain or the blood loss, but he was standing again and that’s what mattered.

 

Someone groaned from beneath a pile of metallic rubble.

 

The prisoner.

 

As quick and quiet as he could, Harry moved to where the larger man was struggling to stand and helped to shift a bulky panel off his back.

 

The prisoner found his feet, but as he did, the light shifted across the grating that made up the floor and something glinted. Harry frowned at the strange item for a moment before something in his head loosened and he recognized the object.

 

Without warning, Harry’s world tilted.

 

_“Why?! Tell me why!” The words erupted from his mouth without his permission. He was in a familiar room, a cavernous place with pots and pans hanging all over and a single, long, wooden table residing in the center of everything. His face was hot and his fists were clenched at his sides. His rage felt like a tangible thing – the loose items in the room were rattling and the robes of the man standing before him rustled in a wind that shouldn’t be present. “Tell me why I can’t just walk up to the bloody bastard and just fucking shoot him!”_

_The man towered over Harry, his head bald and his skin dark. The robes he wore marked him as an Auror and a single, golden hoop decorated one ear. His stance was relaxed, and his eyes were patient. There was sympathy and fatigue in his deep voice when he spoke. “Do you think it’s something we haven’t thought to try? Do you think that we’re so blind to our options that we haven’t tried something as simple as using Muggle weapons?”_

_Harry’s response was wordless – a cry full of rage and frustration, fueled by confusion and helplessness._

_Between them, resting on the table, was a pistol._

 

“Hey, Bright Eyes – you with me?”

 

Harry blinked, swaying while the world resettled around him.

 

The crash, the wreckage – that’s where he was.

 

For a moment, he had thought… but no.

 

The prisoner stood before him, scuffed and bruised, with his head tilted to one side. His face was difficult to read, but there was something like curiosity in his odd eyes.

 

Harry blinked and nodded.

 

The noise from above was louder. Whoever was up there was coming closer.

 

Not good.

 

Harry wasn’t sure he could outrun them if they were Death Eaters, not in his current state. He’d need the werewolf’s help, but would that be showing too much weakness?

 

He moved to run his hand through his hair, but paused at the extra weight.

 

He looked down at his good hand and frowned.

 

A handgun. He was holding a handgun - a pistol.

 

Not any make that he’d ever seen, but he hadn’t ever seen more than a few – and most of those had been on the telly.

 

“Stay with me, now.” The stranger rumbled.

 

Harry looked up and met the other man’s gaze, offering a solemn nod. He didn't like losing track of himself like this, especially not in such dangerous surroundings. He wondered if it was a side effect of the spell that transported him here or if -

 

Metal screeched against metal and Harry startled, dropping the weapon.

 

Thunder sounded immediately after, overwhelmingly loud in the small metallic space.

 

There was a ringing in his ears, now, that drowned out all other sound and a faint smell in the air - something that reminded him of Snape - but it was fading fast enough that he could have imagined it.

 

The pistol was on the ground again.

 

Harry immediately bent to pick it up, but another hand reached it first.

 

The hand was attached to an arm that led back to Malfoy Senior, who rose from his crouch - still shaking off bits of rubble - as Harry did. There was a bloody gash in the blonde’s side and another on his forehead. The man was covered in sand or dust and there was a wicked bruise blooming on the right side of his jaw.

 

Malfoy spared a glance for Harry, but it was the werewolf he fixated on. The pureblood wore a savage, pleased grin as he leveled the weapon at the prisoner, but the stranger didn’t even tense.

 

“Knew you were slow,” the werewolf wore a lazy smirk as he spoke. “Didn’t think you were this slow.”

 

Malfoy frowned, his grin faltering.

 

The prisoner moved his hand to tap at his own thigh.

 

Harry moved his gaze to Malfoy’s thigh and was surprised to see blood, and a lot of it. He hadn’t thought there’d been a wound there before.

 

Malfoy’s snarl was ugly. “Trashbaby, - “

 

“Save your breath, Johns.” The stranger’s smile was cold, but Harry thought his voice was almost gentle. “You’re already dead.”

 

Malfoy collapsed in the next moment.

 

Harry looked from the crumpled pureblood to the werewolf and back.

 

Was Malfoy really dead? How’d he get that injury on his leg? The noise was probably from a spell, but if it was meant to be an attack, then it had flown wide.

 

The stranger was crouching next to the body, but Harry didn’t think about the pistol until the werewolf stood again, the weapon glinting in his hand.

 

Harry wanted to cuss. He was alone with a werewolf, weaponless and without a wand. The prisoner didn’t seem that bad, but Harry had the sneaking suspicion that his new friend wasn’t the type to stock up on wolfsbane potions. Not to mention the other Death Eaters that may or may not be in the area.

 

The sounds from before - the approaching people - were louder now and Harry shifted. The stranger took the time to take apart the pistol, looked at the smaller part, and then put it back together.

 

“Hello? Who’s down there?”

 

A voice. A woman’s voice, coming from near to the edge of the hole in the grating above. Both Harry and the prisoner were out in the open. If she jumped down now, they were easy targets.

 

Harry only realized that he had been backing up when his foot landing on something slick and threatened to slide out from under him. He caught his balance, but the sudden, jerking motion that saved him from falling made him gasp. His vision darkened. Pain crawled up his back again, stretching to reach across his shoulders.

 

It disappeared, though, the instant he felt the hand on his shoulder

 

His body moved before he could register what was happening. He felt the adrenaline flooding his system this time. When his thoughts caught up to him, his lips were pulled back in a silent snarl, his right wrist was in the prisoner’s left hand, and the uncomfortably hot metal of the pistol was pressed into the underside of his chin. The prisoner’s face was blank and his stance was relaxed, as if stopping Harry’s attack had cost him no effort.

 

Harry closed his eyes and grimaced.

 

Fuck.

 

He had just attacked a werewolf.

 

Fucking fuck.

 

He had just attacked an armed werewolf that might have been willing to help him if he had just been able to control hi-

 

“Zeke. Zeke come here.” The voice was hushed now, but still close. She sounded Australian.

 

He was at the wrong angle to see the gap in the flooring above, but it didn’t sound like she was jumping down just yet and that was something good.

 

Harry pulled in a shaking breath and willed his body to calm. His heart was loud in his ears and his muscles were nearly trembling with the now-unneeded energy. Pain was beginning to return, but remained subdued, a dull throbbing in the background.

 

The werewolf hadn’t killed him yet.

 

That was a good thing. Probably.

 

Nothing about the stranger suggested he was angry. Harry didn't want to change the older man’s mind about that, but they had to get moving.

 

What was the proper etiquette on apologizing for attacking a werewolf?

 

Remus would know. Or Hermione.

 

Harry didn’t know the first thing about werewolf etiquette, but he thought he remembered a thing or two about regular wolves that he learned back in primary school.

 

He glanced up until he just barely made eye contact and then he looked down and to the side. He forced his body to relax and then he tilted his head off to one side, to expose his neck more.

 

He waited a moment or two before risking another glance back up. He winced to see that the blank face had been replaced with narrowed eyes and a slight frown.

 

Harry swallowed back a wave of frustrations and helplessness.

 

What did this fucking stranger want from him? Harry hadn’t meant to attack him, he hadn’t even been fully aware of what he was doing until he’d been stopped. He was tired, hurting, defenseless and now he was sharing personal space with a pissed off werewolf. He hated this.

 

He hated the idea of dying even more, though, especially now that the war was finally over.

 

He just had to make it a little longer. If he could live long enough, the Order would track him down and send someone to bring him home. He knew it. It was just a matter of time.

 

If he had to sacrifice a bit of dignity to make sure he stayed alive in the meantime.... Well, it wouldn't be the first time, at least.

 

So Harry did the only other thing he could think of. He whimpered. He stayed as quiet as he could and tried not to think about how easy the sound was to make.

 

It seemed to work, though.

 

The werewolf pulled the pistol out from under Harry’s chin. His grip on Harry’s wrist loosened, even if he didn’t release Harry completely. There was tension in him, but his attention was on the people that were whispering at the edge of the drop down.

 

Harry looked around the room again, searching to see if anyone else might have crept up on them, but nothing looked out of place.

 

The grip on Harry’s wrist tightened and his eyes shot back to the prisoner.

 

The werewolf loosened his hold again and raised a finger to his lips. He pointed at the deeper shadows and took a slow step in their direction, keeping a sharp eye on Harry as he did.

 

Harry nodded as he followed.

 

There was more rubble in this direction and far less light. Any one they encountered would have trouble finding them as long as they could stay quiet. Even so, Harry hoped that they didn't run into anyone else.

 

The stranger kept a hold of Harry's wrist as he led them through the wreckage. Harry was more okay with that than he expected to be.

 

Exhaustion was making his thoughts fuzzy and there was a tingling sensation in the background that worried him in a vague way. By letting the prisoner guide him, Harry was able to focus on keeping his breathing even and his movement quiet.

 

It was nice.

 

Harry didn't register that they had stopped until he felt a sharp spike of pain shoot through his injured shoulder.

 

“Stay with me, Bright Eyes.” The thick, rumbling voice was low, but not harsh.

 

Harry struggled to swallow and nodded to show he was listening.

 

He hadn't meant to zone out. His whole body was tingling now, like static under his skin. He pulled himself together and tried to focus on his surroundings.

 

There was bright light near by. It cast deep shadows, one of which he and the werewolf were standing in. There was a breeze he could feel now, too. The air it brought was dry and scorching hot.

 

The prisoner loomed over him, a pair of goggles on his forehead. When had he found those?

 

“We can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” The stranger continued, his words slow and his strange eyes searching Harry's face.

 

Harry nodded and straightened up from his slouch. It was important to stand up straight when people spoke, it showed that he was paying attention.

 

The werewolf started speaking again, but Harry's ears were ringing and his head was floating. He had no idea what the bigger man was saying, but he liked hearing him talk. He thought it might be easy to fall asleep to a voice like that, like listening to thunder.

 

Another spike of pain pulled him out of his thoughts. Harry whined and tried to pull away from the hand still resting on his wounded shoulder. He felt like he was on the edge of a tantrum, overwhelmed and a little hysterical.

 

“You stay with me, Bright Eyes. No rest until we’re somewhere safe, you get me?”

 

Harry closed his eyes and bit back another whine, nodding. No rest until they were safe. He could do that.

 

“Are you with me, then? Or am I leaving you behind?”

 

Harry’s eyes shot open again and he shook his head. He was in bad shape. There was no way he'd survive without the stranger's help, not like this. He needed the man.

 

He met the werewolf's gaze and shook his head again. He paused a moment before he nodded and leaned forward, toward the prisoner. The action put more pressure on his wound, where the man's hand still gripped his shoulder, but that was fine. He could handle a bit more pain if it meant not getting left behind.

 

The stranger gave a slow nod before he released Harry's shoulder and they were moving through the wreckage again. They headed toward the light. It didn't take long, maybe another minute, before they were slipping free of the airplane and into the open air.

 

The sight that greeted them had Harry wanting to cry.

 

There was a desert stretched out before them. Overhead, the sky was so blue it was nearly white and the sun was so bright that Harry almost couldn’t open his eyes.

 

That was nothing next to the heat, though.

 

Waves of heat rose up from the sand - oppressive, even in the shade where they still stood for the moment. Harry felt himself break out in a sweat and wondered how long he'd last out there before he started to redden. He had suffered sunburns when he was younger, working in his Aunt's garden for whole mornings at a time. He didn't think it would take as long to burn here.

 

Harry felt a tremor move through his whole body and he shook his head.

 

He wouldn’t survive out there any more than he would survive staying with the crash. If he was healthy, if he had his wand, then it wouldn't have been so bad, but he wouldn't make it like this. They didn't even have any water.

 

Maybe he could convince the werewolf to stay. They could find somewhere to hide and wait for the Order to show up. It wouldn't take too long.

 

A warm hand settled on the back of his neck, stopping his rambling thoughts. The stranger didn’t say anything, but Harry took a steadying breath or two before he nodded.

 

Right. Of course the prisoner wanted to go out into the heat. And he couldn't survive without the stranger, so he was going out there, too. Right. He could do this. Just cross a boiling hot desert to get to the safe place and then take a nice nap until the Order sent someone to pick him up. He could do this.

 

Harry thought he might throw up.

 

He looked up at the werewolf and nodded. The hand on the back of his neck gave an answering squeeze and Harry tried not to think about how good that felt. He turned his attention back to the desert, instead.

 

How the hell were they going to find shelter in this forsaken -

 

But there it was again. A flash of bright that didn't belong. It was only a glimpse, a moment of that particular ginger color that only belonged to the Weasleys, but it was enough.

 

He turned back to the stranger with a grin. If Ron had made it out here, then Hermione couldn’t be far behind, and if _both_ of them were out here, then he’d be home again in no time. He didn’t have the energy or the voice to shout to catch Ron’s attention, but they couldn't afford to be loud, anyway.

  
Instead, he motioned to where he saw Ron and stepped out into the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And by updating sporadically, obviously I meant take ages between chapters. I'm sorry, really and truly. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. The next chapter will be posted as soon as I'm done with it, but I'm not sure when that will be.
> 
> As always - please review! Thoughts, questions, concerns and critiques are all welcome!


	4. The Silence Only Grows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instincts are good. They keep a body alive long enough to find trouble again. Most of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genre: Adventure, Sci-Fi  
> Rating: M (profanity, violence, and character death)  
> Theme music: Shadow’s Keeper by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club  
> Setting: AU, Pitch Black - we’re officially in unknown territory
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of child abuse (nothing graphic) and descriptions of injuries gained in battle (nothing graphic? I think).

Riddick groaned.

 

His head throbbed and his ears rang. His back ached. So did his left side.

 

Fucking Johns. Riddick had been injured worse, of course, but damn if he didn’t owe that ass-wipe a shiv to the gut. He’d put that fucking cockroach down for good this time.

 

Riddick was moving before he was even fully aware of his surroundings, instinct telling him that the enemy was still alive, still near.

 

He startled when a panel shifted off his back unexpectedly.

 

A quick scent of the air and he was smelling spice and battle and green. The kid was still around, then. Interesting.

 

He pulled himself to his feet as the kid crouched down awkwardly to pick something up. Riddick didn’t smell any fresh blood on him, so he didn’t think the kid had caught the bullet, but adrenaline and pain still rolled off the kid in waves.

 

The longer Riddick thought it over, the more he realized just how injured the kid was. Local or not, he was starting to think it’d be better if he left the kid behind.

 

Water was important, but it wouldn’t be too bad to go without if he could pick up a ship fast enough. He didn’t need anyone slowing him down, though, and he especially didn’t need to worry about the kid getting caught in the crossfire along the way. The kid was fucked up enough that there was no way he’d have the reflexes to keep up. If Riddick left the kid here, the survivors probably wouldn’t even realize that he wasn’t one of them. Other locals might notice, but the kid looked like a survivor - he’d adapt.

 

The kid stood up, Billy-boy’s pistol in his hand.

 

Riddick didn’t mind the kid having the piece, but he didn’t like the look on the kid’s face. The kid was glaring at the pistol, his eyes unfocused and his breathing ragged.

 

About the same time, a breeze found its way through, heavy with that pepper-spice smell and carrying something on it that set Riddick on edge. Riddick couldn’t pick up anything that had changed in the past minute besides the wind, but he’d been trusting his gut for too long to let his guard down now.

 

In the next moment he heard it. Someone on the upper level was coming closer. Only sounded like one at the moment, fit and uninjured. It’d be good to move on before they got too much closer, though, especially if they were setting off his instincts like this.

 

It’d be nice to have that pistol before he slipped away, though.

 

Riddick turned his attention back to the kid. “Hey, Bright Eyes - you with me?”

 

The kid blinked and swayed a bit.

 

The wind stopped. The pepper smell lingered, but the sense of approaching danger vanished with the wind.

 

Riddick shifted. He didn’t like that. He liked it better when he could smell his enemy coming.

 

The kid nodded after a moment, but then he shook his head.

 

Overhead, the threat stumbled and the noise startled the kid into alertness. The kid froze where he was, emotions flickering over his face, before he moved the pistol up and toward his head.

 

Riddick tensed, but the kid was frowning down at the weapon not even a moment later. The confused look on the kid’s face wasn’t any sort of reassuring, but at least he wasn’t wasting bullets trying to paint the room with his brains.

 

“Stay with me, now.” Riddick kept his voice low and soothing. He didn’t need the kid startling again.

 

The kid looked up immediately, glowing eyes alert and focused on Riddick. The kid noded to show he was paying attention, almost looked like he was waiting for orders or something.

 

That was an idea.

 

Riddick was trying to work out if the kid would just hand over the weapon if he asked for it, when the pile of rubble he’d just climbed free of started rearranging itself.

 

The noise startled the kid into dropping the pistol and the damn thing discharged as soon as it hit the ground.

 

Riddick grimaced as his ears started ringing again. He’d be lucky if he could hear anything by the time he got out of this wreck.

 

He stopped himself from reaching for another shiv. The scent of blood in the air was heavy enough to taste, flowing thick and laced with morphine - it helped him keep his cool, even as Billy-Boy’s hand reached the pistol before the kid’s did.

 

The kid scowled at Johns, eyes darting to Riddick before returning to the newest threat. The kid was putting off fear and anger in waves, body language tense and defensive.

 

Riddick had to wonder if the kid was so worked up because he didn’t have the pistol, or if he was just a damn good judge of character.

 

Johns didn’t give the kid more than a glance before he directed his smirk at Riddick. He had a whole host of new, lesser injuries, but, judging by the way he was moving, he wasn’t feeling the one that was going to kill him.

 

Riddick folded his hands across his chest in slow, deliberate movements and visibly relaxed as much as he could. As long as he could keep Johns from doing anything stupid in the next minute or so, Riddick’s problem would sort itself out.

 

Still, he couldn’t resist gloating a little.

 

“Knew you were slow,” he felt the curl at the edges of his mouth. “Didn’t think you were this slow.”

 

Johns’ own cocky smirk flickered. His eyes searched Riddick’s face. He glanced at the kid again, briefly, but seemed a little reluctant to take his full attention away from Riddick. It was a smart move, but it wouldn’t save him this time.

 

When Riddick felt he’d allowed the new corpse enough time to work out the answer on his own, he took pity and tapped his own thigh to help the dumb bastard along. From the corner of his eye, he saw the kid looking back and forth between them, but he knew better than to move his full attention away from this blond bastard.

 

Johns’ face twisted as he realized the truth. Fear didn’t make him any prettier. “Trashbaby, -”

 

“Save your breath, Johns. You’re already dead.” It was hard to get pissed at a man that was dying in front of him. Johns was already turning ashy and the hand holding the weapon had a fine tremor.

 

Johns licked his lips and shifted his grip on the weapon, but he was falling before he could pull the trigger.

 

That was closer than Riddick liked.

 

The kid was still looking back and forth between Riddick and the corpse, so Riddick grabbed the pistol before the kid could make a move for it. The kid lurched forward to intercept, but caught himself quickly. Riddick waited to see if the kid was going to throw a fit, but the boy only frowned at the gun. Bright eyes flickered up to Riddick’s face and away before huffing. The anger from before was missing, though there were still hints of fear and worry in the air.

 

The kid was all kinds of interesting. Too bad Riddick was going to have to leave him behind.

 

Riddick turned back to the pistol, pulling the clip out to check the ammunition before sliding it back in place. The survivor was approaching again, close enough to smell, now. He took a deep breath - _tools, boots, leather... female_. The prospector.

 

“Hello? Who’s down there?” She sounded healthy, wary.

 

The kid was putting off adrenaline again - backing into the shadows and eyeing the exits. He was shaking, too. Fine tremors for the moment, but not a good sign.

 

Riddick turned to scan the room, but a gasp and the faint sound of metal rolling against metal drew his attention back to his would-be guide.

 

The kid was falling.

 

Riddick reacted on reflex and steadied the boy with a hand on his shoulder.

 

Then things really got interesting.

 

The kid’s eyes flew open. There was no sign he recognized Riddick as anything other than a threat. He feigned a swing with his bad arm - _slow, stiff, weak_ \- then brought his good arm around, aiming to connect his fist with Riddick’s temple.

 

Riddick caught the kid’s good wrist in his left hand and watched as the kid snarled and tried to yank himself free, noting that the kid kept his injured arm tucked close to his body rather than use it for attack. When it looked like the kid wasn’t going to calm himself down, Riddick slid closer and pressed the mouth of the pistol into the soft flesh of the kid’s chin.

 

The kid’s eyes rolled in his head, half crazed and shining with a kind of desperation that only came with being backed into a corner, but he seemed aware enough of his situation that he didn’t try attacking again.

 

It gave Riddick a chance to think.

 

Riddick wasn’t bothered by the fact that the kid had lashed out. The kid wasn’t a threat to him and anyone used to fighting for their lives all the time would react the same way. It was the _way_ the kid tried to attack him that caught his attention.

 

Plenty of people that had tried to attack Riddick over the course of his life. He’d gotten to where he could tell what kind of weapon they were used to having on them by the shape of their hands. A hand used to holding a knife was curled different from a hand used to holding a pistol. By the looks of it, the kid was used to holding a club of some sort. Nothing heavy, but a baton might’ve fit there - especially if the kid had access to some of those new, lighter metal alloys law enforcement liked to play around with.

 

Riddick didn’t smell any metal on the kid, but the reek of blood and battle could be hiding the scent. That, plus the kid’s clothing was loose and Riddick had long learned that there were ways and places to hide anything if a person was desperate enough.

 

The kid’s eyes started clearing.

 

Riddick kept his face neutral and waited to see how the kid would react.

 

The kid relaxed a bit, confusion on his face and bright eyes blinking rapidly, but in the next breath he was all tension again. His eyes widened and his breath started picking up speed, he scanned Riddick’s face right away, too, before grimacing and closing his eyes.

 

Riddick took a slow, deep breath. _Shame. Fear. Desperation. Pepper. And something else..._

 

Interesting that he could pick up the pepper now, when there was no wind.

 

The kid’s face screwed up and smoothed out a few times, but Riddick’s attention was focused on trying to pick out that last emotion. All the other emotions made sense - shame because he’d lost control of himself, fear of either himself or Riddick’s reaction, and desperation because he knew that Riddick was bigger, stronger, and faster. That pepper smell was getting stronger and Riddick couldn’t work out how. It was annoying not only because it made him want to sneeze, but also because it was masking that last scent. When Riddick finally worked out what that other smell was, he felt uneasy.

 

 _Resignation._ The kid knew he’d messed up and had resigned himself to whatever he thought Riddick was going to -

 

“Zeke. Zeke, come here.”

 

The prospector. The one survivor that his gut had told him was a threat, even if his instincts were silent about her for the moment. She was close to the edge of the drop, but not at the right angle to have seen them yet.

 

Her voice seemed to pull the kid back to himself. His eyes opened and flickered around the room before he pulled a jagged breath in. He inhaled again, breath more even this time, and his heart beat started to slow. The taste of adrenaline was starting to fade from the air again, but the kid’s eyes were still darting to Riddick every few seconds.

 

The kid was trying to reduce the visible signs of his panic, even if he still reeked of it. Riddick was impressed. There weren’t many who understood how that helped when facing a predator, but then, those who did know usually had to deal with them on a regular basis.

 

Unease settled more firmly in Riddick’s gut.

 

The kid still hadn’t said anything and now he was starting to shiver. Maybe he was mute? He was going through some sort of shock at the very least.

 

The kid chose that moment to glance up and meet Riddick’s eyes. The kid only kept eye contact for a moment before he dropped his gaze. The kid tilted his head further toward where he was looking - _same direction as his bad shoulder, so at least he wasn’t aggravating that_ \- and the tremors running through him calmed some.

 

Riddick scanned the area the kid seemed fixated on, but didn’t see anything of note. He saw that the kid was still tense and also that he was putting off less anger and desperation. Now it was the resignation that hung heavy in the air - resignation and anticipation?

 

What was he waiting for?

 

It only took another heartbeat for Riddick to put everything together. The kid was turning his body away from Riddick. It wasn’t like Riddick was giving him much room to work with, but the way the kid was tensing, the direction he was curling his body in, was the same side where some of his worst injuries were.

 

The kid was shielding himself. He waiting for a beating.

 

Riddick felt vaguely nauseous.

 

The kid glanced up again - _restless_ \- and the smell of fear and panic spiked. The kid’s heart rate picked up, so did his breathing, and the tremors that ran through the kid started getting stronger again.

 

The kid’s whimper interrupted Riddick’s thoughts and something else clicked into place.

 

The kid hadn’t spoken once since they’d started interacting, communicating only through body language and the occasional grunt. He’d looked to Riddick repeatedly for instruction, followed every order given and, when effectively cornered, he’d bared his neck. And now he was panicking because Riddick hadn’t accepted his apology. The kid had been beaten into thinking he was an animal.

 

Riddick’s stomach gave a violent lurch, but he managed to keep it under control. Really, he should’ve recognized the signs sooner. He’d grown up the same way, after all.

 

He briefly entertained the idea of having the kid lead him to the sick fuck that thought it was fun to do fucked up shit like this to children, but there’d be time for that later. He needed to focus on the immediate threat.

 

Riddick pulled the pistol away from the kid and loosened his grip on the painfully small wrist he still held. He didn’t let go, couldn’t risk Bright Eyes trying to run or tripping over something, but he took a step back and cocked his head to one side. It let him get a better earful of what the prospector and her man were whispering about and it showed that his attention was elsewhere, giving the kid a few seconds to catch his breath again.

 

Riddick let his mind run with the new information and reworked his plans again.

 

He still needed to get free of the wreck and find a way off this rock. If he couldn’t find a ship to slip away in immediately, then he’d need to find food and water and maybe a place to lay low.

 

The prospector was a surprise. All that time drifting and he hadn’t picked up that she was a threat until after the crash. He’d come across others like her, though - _friendly enough, even kind, until they figured it was their life or yours_ \- so he knew how to handle her. The kid, on the other hand...

 

Riddck let his thoughts skim over the idea of leaving the kid behind to distract the prospector and ensure his escape, but something in his gut twisted viciously just as another burst of that irritating spice hit his nose.

 

Riddick held his breath to keep himself from sneezing and wanted to shake his head. He’d always had a soft spot for kids. It didn’t help that this one was injured, exhausted, and more than on edge - too much like himself at that age. He’d be taking the kid with him, even if it did slow him down.

 

The urge to sneeze passed and he glanced back at Bright Eyes, whose gaze was darting around the room. Riddick squeezed the smaller wrist once to get his attention.

 

The kid nearly gave himself whiplash, he turned his head so fast.

 

Riddick motioned for the kid to keep quiet, then pointed at the path he was going to lead them through - further into the belly of what was left of the transport ship. He didn’t want to startle the kid again, he didn’t want to chance the noise or a bad reaction. Slowly, he moved in the direction he’d pointed in and the kid nodded and followed along, looking happy to follow Riddick’s lead.

 

Riddick chose the easiest path he could, trying to move at a pace that didn’t force Bright Eyes to put any more strain on his injuries than he had to. His instincts pushed at him to move faster, to find deeper shadows and more difficult paths, but they also urged him to keep the kid close, where he could protect the smaller, more vulnerable person. Feeling torn between the two was doing a number on his nerves.

 

Riddick stretched out his senses as they walked. He didn’t pick up any sounds of pursuit, but he did hear someone start to scream. It came from far off, from what he thought of as the front of the ship, but it was still loud enough for normal hearing to pick up. The kid didn’t react.

 

The kid’s breathing got labored if they went too fast, and he grimaced if forced to stretch or bend, but otherwise he didn’t make a sound.

 

Riddick released his grip on the kid three times on their way out of the wreckage. He’d needed to clear away some rubble the first time - there wasn’t an easier path and there was no way the kid was going to be able to climb over that mess. The second time, Riddick had caught the glint of a pair of welder's goggles. Deserts tended to be bright and he couldn’t afford to let an advantage like that slip away. The third time Riddick was just trying to figure out how far gone the kid was.

 

Each time, the kid slowed to a stop, stared ahead vacantly, and panted until he caught his breath. He didn’t sit down, he didn’t track Riddick - _or anything else_ \- with his eyes, and as soon as Riddick grabbed his wrist and gave a tug, the kid went right back to obediently following again.

 

The whole mess had Riddick itching to slit someone’s throat. Too bad Johns had to go and get himself dead so fast.

 

Finally, Riddick was able to find a spot that would lead them out into the desert.

 

Riddick tucked the kid away in a shadowed, sheltered area, before he slid his new goggles on and stepped out to assess the terrain.

 

He was grateful for the tinted lenses. The light was bright enough that his eyes were going to start aching soon, even with the protection they offered. Going without them was something to avoid at all costs.

 

A quick jog up to the top of the nearest dune confirmed what he’d been afraid of - desert as far as he could see. He spent a few minutes listening, scenting the wind, but still had no indication of which way water or civilization might be. It was good he was taking the kid along.

 

He turned to head back and caught sight of the ship’s shadows. They were angled odd, darker in some places and lighter in others in a way that only made sense if... Riddick clenched his jaw and looked down at his own feet. Sure enough, two shadows.

 

Two shadows meant two suns.

 

God wasn’t finished shitting on him yet, then.

 

He made his way back into the wreckage and waited for his eyes to readjust. The kid was right where he’d been left. At least he wasn’t panting so much. There was a bit of a hitch to his breath that was new, but none of his injuries had reopened.

 

“Hey, Bright Eyes.”

 

No reaction.

 

Riddick grabbed the kid’s wrist and squeezed. He didn’t put much force behind it at first, but he started increasing the pressure gradually when the kid didn’t react. Gripping tight enough that he could feel the kid’s bones creak didn’t seem to pull the kid out of his daze, though, and Riddick fought back the urge to shake the smaller person until he got a response.

 

Riddick dropped the kid’s wrist and took a step back, pulling his goggles up to his forehead.

 

The kid was injured bad, but knew how to move around it for the most part, shock aside. That alone spoke of a strong survival instinct. He had to have a safe place - somewhere with food and water, maybe even some medical supplies.

 

The problem was the heat. Dry heat ate at any scent trail a body could hope to follow. There was nothing on the wind that smelled like anything but desert.

 

Riddick wasn’t surprised, but he was frustrated. He’d been hoping the kid’s bolt hole might be near by. The kid was practically dead on his feet as it was, a trek of any real length might actually kill him.

 

Of course, going without seeing his wounds treated would definitely kill him.

 

Riddick had to wake the kid up.

 

He looked the kid over. The shoulder injury was the most recent one and it didn’t look too bad. He ran his hand over the site.

 

The kid whined and started to shy away, but a hand around his upper arm held him in place.

 

Riddick pressed on the injury again and felt something inside it - _shrapnel, maybe a bit of weapon that got left behind_ \- but the kid was finally coming back to reality and Riddick filed the information away for later.

 

“Stay with me, Bright Eyes.”

 

The kid’s eyes rolled in their sockets and he made a high pained sound, but he quieted after a moment and nodded.

 

“We can’t stay here. It’s not safe.” Small words, simple ideas. He had to make the kid understand what was going on without overloading him. “You’re injured bad, but I can’t help you here. Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

 

The kid nodded, standing up a bit more straight.

 

“If you tell me where to go, I can get us there. I can patch you up, too, but I need you awake to get us there. I know you hurt, but we can’t stop until you get somewhere safe. Can you handle that? Can you keep moving?”

 

No response. The kid’s eyes were locked on Riddick, but that thousand-yard-stare was creeping back into them again.

 

Riddick carefully tightened his hand around the kid’s shoulder wound again. He hated the sounds the kid made, the way the smaller person struggled to move away, but he had to keep the kid grounded if they were going to make it anywhere in one piece.

 

“You stay with me, Bright Eyes. No rest until we’re somewhere safe, you get me?”

 

The kid closed his eyes. His breathing was getting close to hysterical, but the kid swallowed hard and nodded after a moment.

 

“Are you with me, then? Or am I leaving you behind?”

 

As a rule, Riddick wasn’t one to make idle threats, but the words certainly got the reaction he was looking for.

 

Those glowing eyes shot open and the kid was shaking his head again, pain and desperation in his body language and the scent of spice growing stronger again.

 

The kid took a moment to gather himself, then met Riddick’s gaze and shook his head again. Another breath passed and then the kid started leaning forward, pressing his wound into Riddick’s hand while keeping up the eye contact.

 

The effect was a little unnerving, but Riddick figured the kid was trying to make a point. He released the kid’s shoulder and nodded once. He gave one last glance back along the path he’d led them to get there and then grabbed the kid’s good wrist again, leading him outside.

 

The effect on the kid was immediate. Fine tremors and trembling became outright shaking. The kid swayed and his breathing started getting harsher again, then he shook his head.

 

Riddick scanned the terrain and scented the air. There weren’t any threats that he could pick up on, but it might be the wind was blowing the wrong way. It didn’t help that the kid was starting to throw off fear and pepper-spice in waves again, either. Was it the time of day? Maybe there was something bad about going out in the sunlight. They could sit tight until nightfall, but Riddick wasn’t sure if the kid would last long enough to lead them to shelter if they did.

 

He rested his hand on the back of the kid’s neck. A quiet reminder. Staying wasn’t an option, but Bright Eyes wasn’t going into this alone, either. Whatever was out there, Riddick had seen worse.

 

The kid made an effort to even out his breathing before he nodded. A moment later, he looked up at Riddick and nodded again.

 

Riddick tightened his grip a touch before he moved his hand away. The boy was responding better to touch than he was to words at the moment and a little encouragement never hurt.

 

The kid looked around, frown on his face and unease in his eyes, but then his whole face lit up. The kid looked back at Riddick wearing a shit eating grin and in the next breath he was taking off into the dunes as fast as he could manage.

 

Riddick scanned the path the kid was leading him along, but didn’t pick up on anything that marked this direction as any better than any other, so he kept his silence and followed along, keeping his senses open for any signs of trouble.

 

They walked for ages. Sand dunes stretched as far as the eye could see, only broken up by rocks and earthen spires. The spires were hollow and the noise they made when the wind blew over them set Riddick on edge. He was glad that Bright Eyes didn’t show any interest in getting up close to them.

 

They passed near a boneyard, too, and wasn’t that interesting? Riddick thought maybe they might be trees, at first, but there was no moisture on the wind, no smell of anything green. The kid never showed any signs of slowing, even if he was staggering more than walking by that point, so Riddick made a note of their position and continued to follow.

 

The two suns in the sky seemed to burn hotter and brighter the closer to the horizon they got. The air was thin, too. Either on their own wouldn’t have bothered him overly much, but add in the thirst he was fighting and he had the start of a powerful migraine.

 

It could’ve been worse, though. He could’ve been wandering this wasteland without goggles.

 

Bright Eyes was already used to the lack of oxygen, too. Being short of breath on top of beat to shit would’ve just been adding insult to injury.

 

Riddick paused long enough to notice a third, blue sun starting to rise before the other two had properly set.

 

Yeah, it could’ve been worse. It could always be worse.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

There were buildings on the horizon when the kid finally collapsed.

 

Riddick was impressed. Bright Eyes had lasted a hell of alot longer than he would’ve thought the kid could.

 

He scooped the kid up and closed the distance to the settlement. The kid was lighter than he should be, but that was something to think on later.

 

The buildings Riddick passed were open and empty. He kept his senses open for any sort of threat, but if anyone was here, they were better than most at hiding. The wind was the only thing making noise or movement here, and it didn’t carry any new scents. Between his gut and his senses, he didn’t figure there was anyone around, but he’d feel on edge until he confirmed that for himself.

 

After a few minutes of peaking in doorways, he found a shelter he felt comfortable setting the kid down in. He moved quick and silent through the other three rooms of the building, clearing them before he returned to the first room and crouched next to the kid.

 

Bright Eyes was in bad shape. Working himself so hard without water hadn’t done him any favors. Riddick would see to the kid first, then scout out the area for water and supplies. The place felt more like a waystation than a bolt hole, but there had to be something around here worth more than shade.

 

A quick look over the kid’s head showed two knots at the back of his skull and an old scar on his forehead, but nothing Riddick could do anything about right then. He tried to take off the kid’s glasses, but they were stuck. Glue, maybe? He didn’t smell any, but he couldn’t see anything else that would hold them on.

 

The shiv from the ship made short work of the kid’s shirt and the sight of what was underneath gave Riddick pause. Setting aside how painfully thin the kid was, his body looked beat to hell in ways that were hard to come across on a battlefield - an interrogation room, maybe, but not on the battlefield.

 

Bruises mostly, but there didn’t seem to be any pattern to what made them. None of them smelled dangerous, so he ignored those.

 

Two slashes across the chest, both shallow and both nearly scabbed over. The lower one was deeper and going pink around the edges already. Riddick was going to have to keep an eye on that.

 

He was right about the shoulder wound. Someone had jammed a stick in the kid’s left shoulder. The bleeding had mostly stopped now, but that changed when Riddick fished the wood out.

 

The stick itself was odd. There was a string hanging out of the broken end of it and it reeked of that pepper smell he’d picked up on the kid. Riddick didn’t pick up any scent of any poison on it that he knew of, though, so he set it aside in case it mattered to the kid.

 

Riddick used strips of the kid’s shirt to bandage his shoulder. He couldn’t feel any broken ribs and it didn’t sound like the kid was having any trouble breathing, so he rolled the kid over onto his side.

 

Lots of bruising, just like the front, and more slashes, too. The deepest cut was to his left lower side and it was still oozing a bit. Looked like the blade that did it was sharp, at least - there wasn’t too much tearing to the skin. A deep whiff told Riddick that the kid’s guts were in one piece, so the kid was lucky there, too. Riddick knew how to feel out if anything vital had been nicked, but he didn’t want to stick his hands into the kid without washing them first, so he patched up that wound as tight as could for the moment.

 

There was a bad burn across the kid’s mid back, as well as along his legs in a few places, and Riddick even found an acid burn to the kid’s right calf. It was minor, but how the fuck did he get hit with that? The other burns made about as much sense as the bruises, so he patched up what needed it and bound the kid’s right ankle up.

 

No broken bones, that was good. The kid needed stitches and clean bandages, though, and some burn salve, if there was any around.

 

Riddick stood and looked the kid over again, before he nodded. Bright Eyes would be fine - at least for as long as it took Riddick to get a feel for the place.

 

An hour later and Riddick knew that this wasn’t the kid’s bolt hole. He was willing to bet money that it wasn’t a waystation, either.

 

No food that hadn’t expired decades ago. No water stored, but there was a broken pump he might be able to figure out. No bodies, but a hell of a lot of personal effects left behind. The only building he hadn’t checked out yet was locked from the inside and that left a bad taste in his mouth, too. The best thing about the place was the emergency raft, and even that looked like someone had been chewing on it.

 

How did Bright Eyes know about this place? Were ghost towns common here?

 

Riddick wasn’t going to get any answers until the kid woke up, but he’d be surprised if the kid didn’t sleep at least a few more hours.

 

Riddick scanned the empty settlement, and the silent desert beyond it, before he shrugged.

  
The water pump wasn’t going to fix itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're reading this, thank you. Life is life - I know you're more interested in another chapter than in whatever excuses I've come up with, so Ill get on it. What did you think?


	5. A New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Too much sun. Too much pain. Too much heat. Too many people. Still, it's nice to have a friend to suffer with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genre: Adventure, Sci-Fi
> 
> Rating: T (profanity)
> 
> Theme music: How I feel (Wax Taylor)
> 
> Setting: AU, Pitch Black - does anyone have a map?

"NO!"

 

Harry shot up to sitting and scrambled back until he felt a wall behind him. He gasped for breath, his right arm flung out in front of him. There was no Malfoy Manor, though. No Death Eaters descending on him - only the werewolf.

 

Harry scanned the room.

 

It didn't look familiar. Only two doors - one led outside, the other opened to another room. There was a single window, but it was boarded up. The only light in the room came from the open front door. He was in a living room area, half propped up on the arm of a couch. There was some shelving on the wall across from him and a small side table to his left. There was wood or something, broken and strewn about the floor, but no other furniture in the room.

 

The prisoner stood motionless across the room from him. He couldn’t have woken Harry and moved that far away that fast.

 

Harry strained his senses, desperate to recall where he was and how he'd gotten here.

 

The last thing he remembered was stepping out into the desert. Before that... the crash. There were other survivors, but Death Eaters had been among them. The stranger...

 

Harry had helped the werewolf, who had killed Malfoy’s father.  He remembered the prisoner being at his side when they left the wreckage, but nothing after that.

 

Where were they now?

 

Was there water?

 

Harry’s throat hurt, he was so thirsty. He glanced around the room for a cup or any signs of a water faucet.

 

There was dust everywhere, but not much in the way of pictures or knick knacks. There was glass on the floor, though, and a big puddle of water...

 

Harry's eyes zipped back to the werewolf and his blood ran cold.

 

The stranger stood rigid, his arms stiff at his sides, face blank and eyes hidden behind the goggles.

 

He'd spelled -  _ attacked _ \- the other man petrified.

 

Harry felt his heart stutter.

 

This was the second time he'd attacked the prisoner and now the werewolf knew for sure that Harry was a wizard. He'd have every reason in the world to attack - once he was free.

 

Harry had to go, had to move. He had to get out. He had to put as much distance between himself and the prisoner as he could before the spell wore off.

 

Something was wrong, though. Harry knew it as soon as he took his first step toward the door. He kept moving toward the exit, trying to process what was different and how bad it was. It was only when he got within arm’s reach of the door that his thoughts caught up to him.

 

His ankle was bandaged.

 

Harry stood still a moment.

 

His ankle wasn’t his only injury that was dressed, either. His shoulder and his lower back were wrapped up. There were a couple of wounds on his legs -  _ burns, only healing burns pulled tight that way - _ that were bandaged, too.

 

Harry felt his breath try to catch at the back of his throat.  _ Why? How? _

 

He couldn’t remember anything about moving through the desert. Which meant that the prisoner had to have carried Harry at some point. Then he applied first aid. 

 

To Harry. 

 

The dressings were well done, even if he did tear up Harry’s shirt for material.

 

Maybe he didn't have to run. Maybe the werewolf would understand that the attack had been a mistake - a reflex that Harry hadn’t been able to control. Maybe he could fix this.

 

It was a wild -  _ desperate _ \- chance, but there was no way that Harry could outrun this man. He might’ve had a chance if he weren’t injured. If the stranger wasn’t a werewolf. Here and now, though, the way things were, running would use up energy he wasn’t sure he could spare. 

 

He didn’t have a choice, really.

 

Harry licked his lips -  _ his mouth was so dry _ \- and wished he could see the werewolf's eyes. He was pretty sure that the Body Bind still left the target’s -  _ victim’s _ \- eyes able to move, but the tinted goggles hid that.

 

"Please," He croaked out the word. "I'm sorry. I didn't -" He shook his head and tried to swallow. "Not on purpose."

 

He raised his hand again and focused on releasing the spell. He hadn't done accidental magic in ages, so he wasn't sure, at first, if he could release the spell without his wand.

 

The werewolf's stance sagged before straightening up. His posture was more natural now, if still alert.

 

Harry waited.

 

"Aren't you all kinds of interesting?"

 

The stranger rolled his shoulders and shifted to face Harry, but didn’t come any closer. His voice was deep and rough at the edges, but still calm - so far.

 

"Figure that was my fault."

 

Harry startled.

 

He couldn’t help it. He’d been expecting irritation, suspicion,... anger.

 

The prisoner was relaxed as he spoke, like they were in the middle of a conversation.

 

"Figured that someone had fucked you up lately. Knew you'd react, but you had the terrors pretty bad and I wasn't exactly expecting... that."

 

Harry felt a tremor make it's way through his body. He tried to shake it off. He glanced up at the prisoner's goggles for a moment before looking away. He let his eyes travel around the room again, but made sure to keep the werewolf in his field of vision.

 

"Sorry." Harry felt like he sounded a bit more like himself that time, but he still needed water, and bad.

 

The stranger shook his head and leaned against the wall he was next to. "Nah, like I said, should've been more careful on my part." The prisoner stood motionless for a long moment before he spoke again. "I'm just glad you know how to talk. Was beginning to think you were mute back there."

 

The werewolf shifted and glanced to the couch before back to Harry. "I am a bit curious as to the how of what just happened, though..." 

 

Harry thoughts ground to a halt.

 

The stranger didn't know what magic was? 

 

That was fine.

 

Or maybe he did know, but didn’t understand accidental magic?

 

Harry might be too old for fits accidental magic, but the prisoner hadn’t given any sign that he knew what magic was at all.

 

Maybe it was better to assume he didn't know? 

 

That was fine. Harry could do that.

 

Either way was fine, really. He was going to answer every question the werewolf had and the Ministry could rot for all he cared. 

 

Probably.

 

He still wasn't sure what the werewolf wanted, or what the prisoner had been arrested for, but he figured he could work that out on the way. 

 

"Are you feeling any kind of chatty?"

 

Harry nodded, swallowed reflexively -  _ painfully _ \- and hesitated. After a moment, he ducked his head and glanced up again, hesitating before he motioned to his throat.

 

The action pulled tight on his skin and he glanced down to realize he was sunburnt. Bright red, too. Because it wasn’t like his other injuries weren't enough to deal with right now.

 

Still, all his pains together paled next to his thirst.

 

The stranger seemed to know what Harry meant, though, and nodded.

 

"Sure, we can get you some water first. Think you can walk some? Found a water pump next to the mess hall, but it’s a few streets away."

 

Harry nodded, feeling light in his relief, and headed outside.

 

The prisoner let Harry exit before he followed. He stood, patient, while Harry tried not to glare at their surroundings.

 

They were definitely in the desert still. A wasteland -  _ bright and hot and no green for ages _ \- made up of nothing but sand for as far as he could see. It would’ve been much too convenient for them to have been rescued while Harry had been unconscious. No, couldn’t have that.

 

Harry let himself linger on that thought for a moment, before he shoved it away.

 

It was better with just him and the werewolf, anyway. Fewer people to owe favors to later.

 

He turned back to the stranger, only to find that the man in question was watching him. The goggles made the action especially unnerving. Harry still knew next to nothing about the prisoner or his motives.

 

Once the werewolf had Harry’s attention, he turned to lead the way through the settlement.

 

The buildings were single story, for the most part, and seemed abandoned. Most had their doors wide open, although the windows were an even mix of open and closed - some were even boarded shut.

 

It seemed to take forever to get to what the stranger had called the mess hall. Harry was sure his limping had something to do with it. Now that he was at the werewolf's mercy, he'd decided to let himself favor his bad leg to try to cut back on some of the pain. If the slower pace annoyed the prisoner, then he hadn't said anything.

 

They entered the building and the werewolf motioned Harry to a long table in the middle a wide open room. A row of cabinets ran along the wall to the right. The wall to the left had two doors -  _ closed  _ \- that might lead to other rooms. The last door was across from where they came in, but it led outside again.

 

Harry limped to the table, pulled out a weathered chair and half collapsed into it in relief.

 

He wanted an ice pop so bad. A lemon ice pop and a butter beer and maybe even a Knickerbocker glory . No, to hell with that - he wanted some fire whiskey. And sleep. He wanted to sleep for a week.

 

Harry startled when the prisoner came back in. He hadn't noticed the man leave, but now that he was back, and with a whole pitcher of water, he had Harry's attention.

 

The stranger stopped by the cabinets to pull out two glasses, then came over to the table. He filled the first cup up to the brim and passed it over.

 

Harry took the cup with more gratitude than he could ever remember having in his life.

 

He took a small sip at first, painfully aware of what big gulps lead to. He savored the feeling of wet in his mouth for several long moments before swallowing. He followed that sip with another and another and yet another. He could feel the water falling down his throat to sit heavy in his stomach. He didn't think anything else could feel so divine.

 

"So," The werewolf broke the pleasant silence. He was sitting across the table now, sipping from his own glass. He didn't look impatient or frustrated, only curious. "Now that we're watered, you up for answering a few questions?"

 

Harry was still amazed -  _ suspicious _ \- at how kind the stranger was being. He nodded, though. Hidden intentions or not, the prisoner deserved any answers Harry could give.

 

The stranger opened his mouth, but someone else's voice carried over to them first.

 

"Hello!" 

 

A woman's voice. Not the same one as they'd heard at the ship, though.

 

Harry sat up straight. His full attention was on the door, his senses straining for more information. How many were approaching? Were they a threat? Muggles or magicals?

 

After a few seconds, he looked back to the werewolf.

 

"Hello," the word was long and drawn out this time.

 

Harry’s felt whole body tensed up.

 

The stranger snorted. Annoyance flickered over his face before a dry smirk settled into place. "Looks like we'll have to reschedule this little heart-to-heart. Don't think I'll forget, though."

 

Harry shook his head. He wasn’t brave enough to doubt the werewolf.

 

The prisoner's face gentled and he moved to the door opposite from where they came in from. He waited, patience in his stance, for Harry to find his feet and make his way over.

 

Harry's mind was in a whirl.

 

The idea that others were incoming had his stomach threatening to give up what little water he'd already drunk.

 

Any of them could be Death Eaters and he'd have no way knowing. There was no time to explain what Death Eaters were, not if the stranger didn't know what magic was. Harry didn't have the strength or the energy to help protect the both of them, either.

 

There was a chance that these could be local wizards. Of course, with his luck, they’d only be here to arrest him. Or the werewolf. Or both of them.

 

They could be crash survivors, too.

 

Harry hoped hard that it was the last option, and tried not to feel bad for wanting it.

 

Everything fled his mind as he registered the sudden -  _ comforting _ \- presence of the werewolf's hand on the back of his neck.

 

"Don't think so hard. I'll do most of the talking. Just follow my lead, ok?"

 

Harry relaxed and nodded.

 

That was a good idea. His head was spinning too fast to keep up with. Letting the werewolf take the lead would give Harry a chance to watch whoever was approaching. He’d have more time to figure out if anyone was -  _ a threat _ \- magical and be able to plan accordingly.

 

They left the building, but stayed in the shade. It took a moment or two for Harry to realize that he still had his cup of water with him. He took another eager -  _ measured _ \- sip from it right as the group crested over the hill.

 

There were two adults - a white woman and a black man. The woman was blonde and -  _ already burning _ \- fair skinned. She wore a tank top, pants, and boots -  _ muggle _ \- while the man -  _ more Kingsly's coloring _ \- wore robes. It was a style Harry had never seen before, but they were still robes, so it was safe to call him a wizard. 

 

Harry flattened his bangs against his forehead before he could stop himself. 

 

There were three kids with them. The youngest couldn’t be old enough to have gotten his wand yet. The oldest wasn't much more than a year or two younger than Harry. The boys had various shades of complexion, but they all wore robes like the man did. Harry figured they were wizards, too.

 

The whole lot of them froze at the sight of Harry and the stranger. 

 

Harry felt his heart start pounding harder.

 

Did they see his scar? Did they know who he was? Did he somehow become some sort of international criminal recently?

 

Or was it the prisoner? Did they recognize the werewolf? Did they know what a werewolf even was?

 

Why wasn’t anyone saying anything?

 

Harry felt more adrenaline flood his system the longer it took for someone to  _ do something _ . His muscles were beginning to ache, they were so tense.

 

The stranger laid his hand across the back of Harry's neck again and, once more, Harry felt the tension bleed out of him.

 

There was a voice -  _ Hermione’s _ \- in his head scolding him for not questioning -  _ fighting _ \- the reaction. Harry wasn’t stupid, he knew it wasn’t natural. It might be a side effect of the curse that threw him out here. With the werewolf being a muggle -  _ squib? _ \- Harry wasn’t sure what else it could be. It felt too good, though - the physical reassurance that he wasn’t alone, that someone else would take care of everything. It helped that there were more pressing things to focus on. Questions could wait, for now.

 

"You have water."

 

Harry flinched at the sound of the wizard's voice. The movement sloshed the water in his cup and drew everyone's attention to him.

 

The younger wizards all stared at the water, transfixed. The youngest took a step closer, but the oldest caught him by the arm to keep him close. It was a gentle, easy motion -  _ he was used to keeping an eye on the youngest _ \- followed by whispers. Harry didn't catch what the teen said, but it worked - the youngest wizard stayed with his group. It didn't stop the longing in his eyes, though.

 

The scene yanked at Harry’s heart and he chewed at his lower lip for a moment while he turned his thoughts over.

 

The biggest threat right now was an attack from Death Eaters. The woman was either a muggle or muggle-born, but the wizard didn’t seem to have a problem with her, so he probably wasn’t a threat. Especially with him looking after the kids.

 

The next threat... local wizards. Not a threat in and of itself, but he might be in legal trouble if he broke any laws he wasn't aware of. Hopefully nothing a quick flu call to Hogwarts or the Ministry couldn't clear up.

 

The werewolf could complicate that, but he'd been kind to Harry when he didn't have to be. Harry wasn't about to forget that, but he needed to find out more about... everything.

 

That left crash survivors as the last possibility. People who might need medical attention and definitely needed water. They might not have any way of calling for help, either.

 

That didn't mean they weren't a threat, but... Harry couldn't come up with a reason for feeling so wary about them.  Not one he could put words to, anyway.

 

He looked to the werewolf, who was watching him again. The stranger wore a sort of neutral, patient expression, head tilted a bit to the side. That neutral look changed into something pleased, after a moment.

 

The prisoner turned back to the newcomers. "Yeah, we have water. Come on in."

 

Harry nodded, turned, and reentered the room. He headed for the cabinets where he thought the glasses were, listening to the kids follow him in. They sounded relieved, happy, even if he didn’t understand anything they said.

 

Harry found the glasses and frowned. 

 

There were five newcomers. He needed five glasses. He hadn’t -  _ couldn’t _ \- set his own cup down, yet, though, so he was going to have to get creative. There weren’t any trays out in the open, but there might be some in the cupboards.

 

The oldest of the wizard's kids came over before Harry could move to start looking. He had a question on his face and wore a hopeful smile.

 

The guy looked young - not age wise but... he looked innocent, unguarded. Counting age by years, he could be in fifth or sixth year. It was hard to tell sometimes. There was no fear in the his eyes, though. He looked tired and -  _ thirsty _ \- a little worried, but not afraid.

 

Harry felt a deep, longing ache come over him like a wave. He tried to remember the last time he trusted that everything was going to be fine. Then he tried to forget and he focused all his attention on passing the other kid glasses.

 

The oldest boy called the other two over and, between the lot of them, the glasses got to the table.

 

The two adults -  _ muggle and wizard _ \- entered the room while Harry and the boys were busy. The wizard wondered, in a whisper, if Harry was another survivor of the crash. The woman's answer was quiet and suspicious.

 

Harry grit his teeth against a sudden, vicious urge to lash out.   
  


He wanted to sneer or yell or throw something - to  _ do something _ . Did they think he was deaf?

 

Instead, he stood where he was and watched the new comers take seats at the table. He used the time to make sure he had his emotions under control.   
  


He wasn't mad at the -  _ woman _ \- two adults, or he didn't think he was, anyway. He knew he was running ragged. His whole body hurt. He felt exhausted, even after having the chance to pass out for a bit. He hated the fact that he didn't know where he was or why he was here or when -  _ if ever _ \- he'd be able to go home.

 

He had a mountain of -  _ rage _ \- frustration and the newcomers were just an easy target, that's all.   
  


Besides, throwing a tantrum wouldn't do anything, but encourage gossip and criticism.   
  


A glance at the door showed the werewolf leaning against the frame, a single eyebrow raised. It took more willpower than Harry thought he had to resist rolling his eyes in answer.   
  


The new comers were already pouring out what little water was left in the pitcher. It wouldn't make for much split between all five of them.

 

Harry took another sip of what was left in his own cup to distract himself. He tried not to feel irritated that they were helping themselves to -  _ his _ \- the rest of the water, especially after he and the werewolf had invited them to.   
  


He moved over to the table, to the spot he'd been sitting at before, but couldn't bring himself to sit down. He didn't want to be so close these people.

 

The prisoner was still in the doorway, watching everything.   
  


On a whim, he picked up the werewolf's cup and brought it over to him.   
  


He felt guilty, in a vague way, that he was using the prisoner as a shield. He felt unsettled, too, when he realized he was half hoping for another calming hand across the back of his neck.   
  


He kept his thoughts to himself and handed the cup to its owner.   
  


The werewolf took the glass, head tilted to the side and that one eyebrow raised again. It was hard to tell with the goggles, but Harry thought the prisoner might look concerned.   
  


Harry shook his head. He was fine, or he'd be fine soon. He just didn't want to feel like he was facing them alone.   
  


The werewolf nodded, like Harry had spoken out loud, and took a drink. He pushed off from the door frame, brushing his shoulder against Harry's as he moved past, and made for the table.   
  


Harry turned and retraced his steps.   
  


The werewolf chose a chair near the middle of the table. He was leaning his forearms across the back of it, rather than sitting, but it was enough.

 

He'd need to talk to Madam Pomfrey when he got back. He had never been fond of crowds or strangers before, but this wasn't normal. He wasn't helpless -  _ might as well be _ \- he shouldn't feel the need to hide behind a stranger.   
  


Harry sat himself next to the prisoner and took another drink of his water. He focused on the way it felt in his mouth, the cool wetness of it. He waited for someone to break the silence.

 

The newcomers had all finished their water. Some -  _ the woman _ \- eyed the water still in Harry's and the prisoner's glasses, but no one asked for more.   
  


The kids seemed okay with waiting. They whispered back and forth to each other, voices low but excited.   
  


Harry didn't realize he was smiling at them until the wizard spoke.   
  


"Do you understand what they're saying?"

 

Harry tensed, fighting the urge to pull back or hunch his shoulders around his ears.

 

There was nothing wrong with the question or the way it was asked. The wizard didn't seem like a threat. That didn't stop Harry from feeling cornered, though.

 

Harry shook his head after a long moment.

 

"We were on a transport ship that crashed." The woman spoke next, her words hurried and stilted. "I don't know exactly what happened, but something went wrong. Our systems got fried pretty good. There are others, other survivors, back at the site, but we left to find water." She paused, looking from the werewolf, to Harry, and back. She looked uncertain -  _ reluctant _ \- to continue. "Is there any way you could... help? Is there a port nearby or someone you can call that could send help?"

 

The prisoner met Harry's eyes when Harry looked to him, but Harry wasn't sure what reaction he wanted. Harry didn't like having so many -  _ potential threats _ \- strangers hanging around. He couldn't deny them water, though, not in this heat. Especially not the children.

 

The werewolf read Harry's mind again and nodded, then looked back to the woman. "Got no phones, no radios, no long range communications."

 

The prisoner paused, watching the two adults seemed to deflate. The oldest of the wizard’s boys looked worried. The other two didn't seem to notice, too busy whispering.

 

A subtle, wicked -  _ Weasley twin _ \- grin settled on the werewolf’s face. "We got a life raft, though."

 

The newcomers seemed able to breathe again.

 

"What?"

 

"Truly?"

 

The prisoner nodded. "It won't win any beauty contests. It needs fresh fuel cells and it could use patching up in a few places, but it's better than nothing." He took another drink. “We got enough water to share, too.   
  


The wizard translated for the kids and the relief on their faces eased something tight in Harry.   
  


The woman seemed happy, too - sort of. She leaned back in her chair, wearing something like a smile. She kept looking between Harry and the werewolf, though, as if she were trying to figure out what the catch was.    
  


"This is a big settlement for just the two of you. Where's everyone else?" Her question was careful. It was her tone, the look in her eyes, that had Harry tensing up.   
  


"Nah, just us." The prisoner shook his head.   
  


Harry could almost see her thinking. What was she planning? What did she want?   
  


"We have four more back at the crash site. All they've had to drink is alcohol - it was all we could find. Would it be okay to bring them here, too?”   
  


“We got plenty of water to go around,” the werewolf shrugged. "Not my call, though."   
  


Harry blinked. What was the prisoner up to?   
  


The woman startled. They seemed to have the wizard's full attention again, too.    
  


"What?" Her voice was just the near side of hard.

 

Harry shifted in his seat.

 

When Aunt Petunia's voice got like that, it was a warning. Sometimes it was a promise.

 

"Not my call," the prisoner repeated, a wide smile -  _ all sharp teeth and warnings _ \- in place. "Not my place."   
  


The woman and the wizard exchanged a look.   
  


"What do you mean?" There was confusion on the wizard's face.   
  


"This place, all the buildings and equipment - hell, even the water. It's not mine."   
  


"Who does it belong to, then?" The woman's words all had hard edges to them.

 

Harry shifted again.

 

If she got violent, he'd make for the door to his right. It was the side the werewolf first brought him in on and the woman wasn't familiar with that area. Running would hurt like a bitch, but he could handle it. The prisoner would be able to handle the woman anyway, as long as the wizard didn't use any magic.   
  


The werewolf tilted his head at Harry. "Bright Eyes. It's his place."   
  


Harry almost startled.

 

He didn't understand the reason for the deception, but it was better to play along now and get details later. Besides, the prisoner had been nothing but kind to him so far. He had no reason not to trust him.   
  


The wizard and the woman both looked at Harry. The woman's eyes were critical, dismissive. If she could manage a decent sneer, she might look something like Snape. The wizard was curious and a little confused - like he was trying to figure out it this was a joke or not.   
  


Harry kept his face neutral.

 

“You mean to say, that everything within this settlement belongs to this young man... Bright Eyes."

 

The werewolf nodded and took another gulp of the water still in his glass.

 

Harry mimicked the motion without thinking.

 

"Well, then... Bright Eyes." Her forced smile didn't quite hide the irritation and inconvenience in her eyes as she spoke. "Would it be okay with  _ you _ if we brought the other survivors here?"

 

Harry didn't have a chance to respond.

 

"We would also like to help you repair the life raft." The wizard looked concerned. He was quick to speak after the woman asked her question, but his tone was kind. The woman didn't look thrilled, but she didn't stop him, either. "Your friend has said that it is not yet in working order, but the ship that brought us here is very much beyond repair. Perhaps we can work together to leave this place." 

 

He didn't speak like most of the wizards Harry knew. It wasn't his accent or the words he chose. The wizard was respectful and he observed before he reacted. He didn't need his ego stroked, either. He seemed... honest. 

 

Harry chewed on his lower lip again, then looked to the werewolf. The werewolf tilted his head a bit to one side, then his grin softened into something more natural. When the werewolf nodded, Harry looked back to the wizard and nodded as well. 

 

The man said something to his charges and the boys exploded with happy sounds again. Their faces were lit up and their words flowed so fast. They spoke to each other, but would talk to Harry, too, sometimes.

 

All Harry could do was smile and nod. 

 

The woman still looked annoyed, but not as much. "The boy doesn't talk much." 

 

Harry felt his body jerk and he was quick to bite his tongue. 

 

Rage -  _ icy hot and wonderfully numbing _ \- slid down his spine.

 

He didn't know why he expected anything else. Almost every experience in his life was summed up in this tidy little exchange. Why should this time be any different?

 

The people in charge decided they had a problem. Rather than solving it themselves, they lay it at Harry's feet. When he did solve their problem, against all odds, all he got was a pat on the head and a back handed compliment. Which he better be grateful for. Oh, and another problem to solve.

 

It was bullshit and Harry was tired of it. Beyond tired of it. He wasn’t that wide eyed boy that had stumbled his way into the wizarding world all those years ago. That boy had died, in the most literal way possible. That boy had sweat and starved and bled and killed and then died to save a swarm of... of... locusts! Of rats! No, he was past being looked through and talked down to and if  _ this woman _ thought that - 

 

"Bright Eyes." The werewolf's correction startled Harry's thoughts into silence. "He's called Bright Eyes." There was a lazy warning in the words, despite the near gentle tone.

 

Harry struggled to breathe for a moment. A flurry of emotions -  _ warmth, longing, tension, disbelief _ \- had his chest feeling tight. Anything he might've said was stuck in his throat, so he focused his attention on his drink, instead.

 

"Right," the woman's voice was a bit strained. "I'm sorry. I meant to say that Bright Eyes doesn't talk very much. He's been pretty quiet so far."

 

"He's a bit slow to warm up to people." The werewolf nodded, his tone unchanged.

 

"Are the two of you close friends, then?" The man spoke again, caution and curiosity in his voice.

 

Harry looked up in time to meet his gaze, but looked away to scan the room before the man could say anything else.

 

"Very."

 

Harry worried what the werewolf stood to gain by playing these... pranks on the newcomers, but only for a moment.

 

A wall of fatigue was coming at him like a jinxed bludger. It was easier to promise himself answers later than to spend the energy fussing about it now.

 

He finished off the water in his cup and started to stand to get more. The skin along his arms and the back of his neck -  _ and his ears, how was that possible? _ \- pulled hot and tight and angry. A grimace passed over his face before he could stop it.

 

Harry felt the werewolf's hand at the back of his neck before he realized the man had moved. He eased himself back into the chair and sent the prisoner a silent question.

 

The werewolf shook his head and ruffled Harry's hair. He took the empty pitcher, went over to the cabinet for another, and then made to head outside.

 

He pause in the doorway, looking back at Harry. There was nothing obvious in the prisoner's expression, but Harry still felt like the werewolf was asking him something. There was something there that might’ve been concern, too.

 

Harry nodded -  _ yes, I’ll be fine on my own _ \- and leaned back in his chair.

 

The werewolf nodded once and moved out of sight.

 

With the prisoner gone, Harry became the focus of attention.

 

"So..." The woman started to speak, but her voice trail off. She glanced at the door the werewolf left through and settled for a pinched smile instead.

 

Harry avoided meeting her gaze.

 

"You look like you are hurting. Were you attacked?" The wizard's voice was gentle, soothing - like he was addressing a feral, injured animal.

 

Considering that Harry felt like a feral, injured animal, he decided not to take offence.

 

"I am not a doctor, but I do know first aid. Or I could pray with you, if you like."

 

Harry blinked and searched the wizard's face. He'd never heard of a religious wizard before. Magic folk swore using the names of ancient, powerful witches and wizards. They didn’t pray to anyone, though, or he didn’t think they did. Hermione mentioned something about 'Old Ones' once, but never went into detail about it.

 

The wizard took Harry's curiosity as interest and began describing his faith. He used words like 'Chrislam' and 'hajj' and 'New Mecca', and a whole host of words that sounded foreign.

 

To be honest, most of it went over Harry's head, but he tried to pay attention. Hermione would have questions later.

 

Many long minutes later, the werewolf came back and Harry shot him a look of pure relief. The wizard was nice enough, but much too talkative. He'd be sure to get the wizard's floo address before they parted ways so that Hermione could find out more. On her own.

 

The prisoner, quick to catch on, wore a shit eating grin. He refilled Harry's water first, then passed the second, still full pitcher over to the wizard. The werewolf then topped off his own cup before refilling the woman's. The wizard refilled his charges' cups before refilling his own.

 

"If we are to be working together, I think it is best that we introduce ourselves." The wizard's words were warm and his eyes were bright with happiness. "I am called Abu al-Walid, but my friends call me Imam. These are my wards Suleiman, Hassan, and Ali. We were traveling to New Mecca on a religious pilgrimage. We will give thanks and praise to Allah for placing the two of you in our path when we needed you most."

 

Harry smiled and nodded, trying not to shift. He really didn't want to hear any more about that today.

 

"And I'm Caroline Fry. I'm all that's left of the crew of The Hunter Gazer." The woman's words were clipped. "There are two men, a woman and a..." she glanced at Harry, hesitating, "child back at the crash site."

 

Harry looked at the water in his cup, but he saw the werewolf nod from the corner of his eye.

 

"I'm Rick, this is Bright Eyes." The prisoner took a long drink, before he spoke again. "Do you have any technical expertise, Fry?"

 

An emotion flickered over the woman's face, but too fast for Harry to read. "Some."

 

"Why don't you come take a look at our life raft, then?" The werewolf nodded again, his request laced with something Harry couldn’t name.

 

Harry met the prisoner's eyes and wanted to shake his head. He didn't trust her. He didn't like the idea that the werewolf would be alone with her. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t think the werewolf could handle her. Harry had assumed she was a muggle, but she could be muggle born, instead. Even a werewolf with magic of his own had to be careful when facing off with a witch.

 

The prisoner laid his hand across the back of Harry's neck and let it rest there a moment. "It's better to go shopping with a list in mind. Makes the way back easier." When he spoke, there was reassurance in his voice and kindness on his face. There a note of finality in the words, too, though.

 

Harry nodded reluctantly and felt himself relaxing almost against his will. He took a drink of his water when the prisoner motioned for him to.

 

"You stay and play host. This won't take long."

 

Harry nodded again. The werewolf had better come back. Harry wasn't in any shape to rescue anyone.

 

He watched until the werewolf was out of sight, then turned back to Imam and offered a tentative smile. 

  
At least this gave him a chance to ask the wizard some questions. It would good to find out what the magical government around here was like. Maybe, between the two of them, they could figure a way out of this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took about 10 months to post the chapter this time, so... that's progress, right?
> 
> Also, there should be another chapter up within the month!
> 
> If you're still following this story, thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who think this sounds familiar, I have posted the same story over at fanfiction.net under this same handle. I've been distracted... by people and things and life in general, but I hope to be able to devote more attention to this story now. I'll be posting sporadically, but any feed back or thoughts/questions/ideas about this story are more than welcome.
> 
> Thank you for reading my fic!


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